i^oML  mmiE 


^8 


7 


Q 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/driftingwatersOOmacniala 


By  Rachel  S.  Macnamara 


The  Fringe  of  the  Desert 

The  Torch  of  Life 

Drifting  Waters 


AN    EGYPTIAN    POSTMARK  I 

Drawn  by  C.  Batchelor 


{See  page  282) 


Drifting    Waters 


By 

Rachel  Swete  Macnamara 

Author  of 
"  The  Torch  of  Life,"  "  The  Fringe  of  the  Desert,"  etc. 


There  are  waters  that  drift  lives  together : 
and  waters  that  drift  lives  apart  " 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

ILbe    "Knicfterbocfter    ipcess 

1916 


Copyright,  1915 

BY 

RACHEL   SWETE    MACNAMARA 


"Cbe  "Rnfcftcrbocfter  ipress,  mew  JJotfc 


SRLG 
URL 


JANE 

BECAUSE   OF   THE    GLEAM 


CONTENTS 


I. — The  Episode 
II. — The  Event 
III.— The  Epoch 


PART  I 


LEAF 


3 

22 
48 


PART  II 
BLOSSOM 

I.— The  Tudors 

II. — The  Sweet  o'  the  Year 
III. — Drifting  Waters 
IV. — Young  Magic 

V. — The  Honeymoon 
VI. — The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel 


lOI 

133 
171 
210 

256 

285 


vi  Contents 

PART  III 

FRUIT 

CBAPTBa  PAGB 

I. — The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs     .         .       309 

II. — Silvery  Fairness        ....     344 

III. — Threads  of  Fate        ....     388 

IV. — The  Great  Light        .         .         .         .417 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


An  Egyptian  Postmark!       .         .     Frontispiece 

"My   Darling!"  he  Murmured,  "Kiss  me, 

AND  Quickly  "        .         .         .         .         .     248 

"It  Was  a  Face  of  Rare  Charm,  of  Subtle 

Distinction  "  .         .         .         -324 

He  Pointed  out  to  her  Vignettes  of  Arab 

Life 348 

"Richard,   let  me   Go!    Are   you   Mad?" 

SHE  Cried  Desperately        .         .         .     392 

*'  Loved  you  ?    O,  you  Blind  Ricky  ! "         .     428 


PARTI 
LEAF 


DRIFTING    WATERS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  EPISODE 


THERE  were  three  incidents  in  Anne  Tudor's  early 
life  which  stood  out  as  milestones  upon  the 
happy  monotony  of  the  road  on  which  her  young 
feet  wandered. 

The  first  was  an  episode  which  opened  the  gate  to 
a  new  field  of  thought;  the  second,  an  event  which 
gave  her  her  first  glimpse  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge; 
the  third,  an  epoch  which  eventually  led  her  to  taste 
for  herself  of  the  fruit  of  that  forbidden  tree. 

The  episode  occurred  in  her  tenth  year,  and  took 
place  in  the  dusk  of  a  November  afternoon  when  she 
and  her  mother  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  sitting-room  of 
the  little  house  in  Caroline  Place,  where  all  the  days 
of  her  memory  had  been  spent. 

Anne  sat  on  her  stool  at  one  side  of  the  hearth. 
Her  mother  leaned  back  in  the  carved  black  chair  at 
the  other,  with  her  back  to  the  light. 

"Mother,  what  is  a  wedding  really?"  asked  the 
3 


4  Drifting  Waters 

child  suddenly,  looking  up  from  the  wisp  of  tulle  she 
was  hemming. 

Mrs.  Tudor  held  up  one  hand  between  her  face  and 
the  blaze,  and  studied  the  rosy  glow  that  outlined 
each  delicate  finger  before  she  answered. 

"A  wedding  is  an  act  of  irrevocable  folly  committed 
by  two  people  who  are  either  idiots  or  criminals,"  she 
said  with  a  concentrated  bitterness  that  startled 
Anne. 

"But  hadn't  you  one,  mother?" 

' '  Anne,  come  here ! " 

Anne  rose  obediently  and  went  and  stood  at  her 
mother's  knee — the  bit  of  tulle  still  in  her  fingers. 

The  waning  light,  now  faintly  shot  with  rose  from 
a  wintry  sunset,  fell  full  upon  her  small  white  face 
and  eager  eyes.  She  was  a  tall  slim  child  with  long 
black  hair,  silken-fine,  which  fell  in  a  thick  plait  over 
either  shoidder.  She  had  little  obvious  beauty  of 
feature  save  in  the  thickly-lashed  eyes,  which  looked 
sometimes  black  and  sometimes  hazel-grey ;  but  when 
wonder  or  enthusiasm  set  torch  to  her  young  imagina- 
tion then  Anne  flamed  to  a  sudden  loveliness  as  evan- 
escent as  it  was  rare.  The  Anne  of  every  day  was 
just  a  quaint-looking  little  girl,  old-fashioned  of 
speech,  with  whimsical  corners  to  a  mouth  that  was 
always  ready  to  smile  at  a  world  which  so  far  had 
never  frowned  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Tudor  took  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looked 
at  her  strangely. 

"My  child,  is  that  an  indictment?"  she  asked. 

"No,  mother." 

*'Do  you  know  what  an  indictment  means?" 

"No,  mother." 


The  Episode^  5 

Mrs.  Tudor  let  go  the  rounded  chin  and  laughed. 
It  was  a  laughter  drained  of  mirth  that  hurt  Anne, 
she  did  not  know  why.  She  flung  her  arms  round 
her  mother's  neck,  clinging  to  her  with  childish  passion. 

"It  doesn't  sound  a  nice  thing,"  she  cried  with  un- 
usual vehemence.  "I  couldn't  think  anything  or 
say  anything  of  you  that  wasn't  nice.  You  know  I 
couldn't.     Say  you  know!     Say  you  believe  me!" 

"Of  course  I  believe  you,  sweetest,  littlest,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Tudor,  her  voice  swiftly  dropping  to  a 
crooning  tenderness.  "I  forgot  how  young  you  were. 
That  was  all.  You  must  forgive  me,  my  Anne.  We 
have  only  each  other.  We  must  never  doubt,  never 
misunderstand  one  another.  Understanding  is  the 
great  essential  which,  if  lacking,  leaves  the  biggest 
gap  in  life.  Now  go  back  to  your  stool,  dearest,  and 
tell  me  why  you  wanted  to  know  about  weddings," 

Anne  reluctantly  loosed  her  arms,  then  tightened 
them  again  for  a  final  squeeze. 

"You  are  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful!"  she 
said  below  her  breath  in  a  slow  chant  of  adoration, 
"and  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you!" 

Then  she  picked  up  the  wisp  of  tulle  in  which  her 
needle  was  stuck  and  went  back  again  to  her  stool. 
As  she  sat,  a  blue  flame  spurted  from  a  log  and  struck 
response  from  the  needle's  brightness. 

"Isn't  it  pretty?"  she  said,  making  it  flash  again. 
"I  do  love  flames  and  brightnesses  and  lights  and 
reflections  of  things.  The  river,  too,  I  love  the 
river." 

"You've  a  large  heart  and  not  many  to  fill  it," 
mused  Mrs.  Tudor.  "A  mistake,  perhaps.  I  won- 
der—  "  her  voice  trailed  into  silence. 


6  Drifting  Waters 

"I  have  you  and  Sabina  and  M.  du  Savenay  and 
Miss  Carmichael  and  Ponsonby  and  the  cats — oh, 
and  lots  of  outside  people." 

"Your  mother,  a  servant,  an  old  man,  an  old  maid, 
a  cockatoo,  and  the  proletariat !  A  very  rag-bag  of  the 
affections!  But  I  mustn't  forget  all  your  blessed 
abstractions — your  rivers  and  your  firelight,  your 
fairy-tales  and  your  Toby  dogs,  your  flowers  and  all 
your  other  dear  whimsies.  Go  on,  my  Anne.  Fill 
your  life  with  those,  cram  it  until  there  is  no  room  for 
the  things  that  hurt — that  kill." 

"Mother!" 

"Go  on  with  your  work,  child.  I'm  in  a  mood 
today.     What  are  you  making  ? " 

Anne  looked  at  her  mother  and  hesitated.  She 
feared  to  hurt  her.  Such  odd  things  seemed  to  hurt 
Big  People.  She  had  once  made  Miss  Carmichael 
almost  cry  at  a  music-lesson  by  asking  her  why  she 
had  no  little  girl  of  her  own.  She  remembered  how 
she  had  answered  that  people  who  didn't  marry 
hadn't  little  girls  of  their  own. 

"Or  little  boys  either?"  Anne  asked  with  interest. 

"Or  little  boys  either,"  Miss  Carmichael  answered. 

"What  a  pity!"  she  had  said,  and  Miss  Carmichael 
had  replied  that  it  seemed  so  sometimes,  and  her 
face  had  been  very  sad  as  she  spoke.  Since  then 
Anne  had  found  out  from  converse  with  Sabina,  who 
possessed  a  wonderful  fund  of  knowledge,  but  who 
had  also  the  usual  strange  reticences  and  withdrawals 
of  all  Big  People,  that  being  married  and  weddings 
were  one  and  the  same  thing.  Therefore,  as  it  was 
evidently  a  distressing  subject  for  Big  People,  she 
paused  over  her  answer  to  her  mother. 


The  Episode  7 

"Did  you  not  hear  me,  Anne?  I  asked  you  what 
you  were  making." 

"I'm  sorry,  mother.  I  was  thinking."  Then  she 
plunged,  her  imagination  instantly  captured  by  the 
new  idea.  "I — I'm  making  a  wedding-veil  for  Lady 
Bell.  I  wanted  to  think  of  a  new  game  to  play  at 
with  my  doll's  house,  and  Sabina  suggested  a  wedding. 
She  said  she'd  make  a  cake  for  me,  and  she  gave  me 
this  bit  of  tulle  out  of  her  summer  hat  for  a  veil.  So 
I'm  going  to  have  a  grand  wedding  tea-party  to- 
morrow and  marry  Lady  Bell  to  Mr.  Snowball." 

Mrs.  Tudor  kept  her  head  turned  away,  and  lean- 
ing her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  screened  her 
face  from  Anne  with  her  hand.  "Mr.  Snowball  is 
the  china  gentleman  attired  in  black  velvet,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes.  We  called  him  that  for  a  joke,  don't  you 
remember,  on  account  of  his  black  clothes.  Lady  Bell 
is  the  fair  one  dressed  in  a  bit  of  the  blue  Indian  silk 
you  gave  me.  Sabina  says  it  ought  to  be  a  very 
pretty  wedding." 

"Yes." 

"Weddings  are  pretty,  aren't  they,  mother?" 

*' Pretty!  Good  God!  Sacrificial  travesties !  Mock- 
eries!" cried  Mrs.  Tudor,  gazing  into  the  fire  with 
wild  eyes  that  seemed  as  if  they  would  wrest  some 
secret  from  its  glowing  depths.  "It  is  fitting  that 
you  should  play  at  them  with  your  dolls,  Anne.  What 
are  we  but  puppets  after  all,  with  the  Fates  to  pull 
the  strings  and  make  us  dance  to  whatever  tune  they 
pipe?  A  comfortable  theory  enough,  if  one  could 
believe  it,  and  wring  advantage  from  it, —  one 
which  should  simplify  life  and  help  one  to  bow  to  the 
inevitable." 


8  Drifting  Waters 

Suddenly,  the  light  died  out  of  Mrs.  Tudor's  eyes 
and  they  became  veiled,  inscrutable.  Silence  fell 
with  the  gathering  shadows. 

Anne  was  used  to  her  mother's  occasional  outbursts, 
which  she  did  not  half  understand.  The  aftermath  of 
this  one  was,  first,  a  dim  conviction  that  the  wedding, 
as  a  topic  of  conversation,  was  to  be  avoided  for  the 
future,  and,  secondly,  the  picturesque  suggestiveness 
contained  in  the  last  sentence. 

Anne's  imagination,  always  prone  to  seize  phrases 
and  make  pictures  out  of  them,  pounced  instantly  on 
this  one. 

To  bow  to  the  Inevitable ! 

Who,  what  was  the  Inevitable?  Why  should  one 
bow  to  him  or  it  ? 

Her  fancy  pictured  some  great  Form  at  the  end  of 
a  vista — a  vista  long  and  tapering  as  the  Chelsea 
Embankment  with  its  diminishing  chain  of  yellow 
lamps — before  whom  filed  an  endless  procession  of 
bowing  figures.  Yes,  that  must  be  it,  she  thought. 
It  must  be  some  strange  and  mysterious  ceremony 
which  had  to  be  performed  by  Big  People  when  they 
became  Big  People,  It  was  evidently  a  difficult 
performance  also,  for  her  mother  said  that  one  had 
to  be  helped. 

What  sort  of  bowing  was  it?  she  wondered.  It 
could  not  be  like  ordinary  bowing,  for  that  was  quite 
easy.  Would  she  have  to  bow  to  the  Inevitable  when 
she  grew  up?  How  would  she  learn  the  right 
way?  Half-consciously  she  began  to  nod  her 
head  backwards  and  forwards  until  one  plait, 
loosening,  sent  black  waves  of  hair  tumbling  into 
her  eyes. 


The  Episode  9 

As  she  put  down  her  work  and  replaited  the  errant 
locks,  she  looked  across  at  her  mother. 

What  she  saw  was  the  picture  which  remained 
nearest  her  inner  vision  throughout  her  after-life: 
the  picture  which  first  flashed  across  Anne's  mind  at 
thought  of  her  or  mention  of  her  name.  She  had 
other  memories  as  well,  but  this  was  the  one  which 
always  came  first. 

A  slight,  erect  figure,  whose  abundant  dark  hair 
was  streaked  by  one  tress  of  white ;  a  figure  generally 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  thin  shawl  of  crimson  cr^pe 
draped  loosely  about  her  and  falling  in  folds  over  the 
edge  of  the  carved  black  chair;  the  lace  at  her  throat 
fastened  by  a  round  brooch,  a  ruby  set  in  a  ring  of 
diamonds;  another  ruby  gleaming  on  one  long  slim 
hand,  and  from  her  ears  pear-shaped  rubies  hanging 
in  pale  gold  filigree  cages.  Anne  loved  to  see  the 
red  glints  of  the  jewels  whenever  her  mother  moved 
head  or  hand.  Her  mother's  hands  always  fascinated 
Anne.  In  some  odd  way  they  seemed  to  echo  the 
expression  of  her  mouth.  If  it  was  fierce  (as  it  some- 
times was)  they  looked  fierce;  they  gripped  and  grew 
tense.  If  it  were  soft  and  tender  they  grew  soft  and 
tender;  they  caressed  Anne's  hair  or  cheek,  Ponsonby's 
yellow  crest,  whatever  lesser  thing  came  nearest.  If  it 
were  hard  and  bitter — as  today  when  she  had  laughed 
so  strangely — they  looked  hard  and  bitter;  thin  and 
almost  cruel.     Anne  felt  a  little  afraid  of  them  then. 

As  for  her  eyes,  they  were  generally  either  tired  or 
loving.  Anne  seldom  saw  them  flash  as  they  had 
flashed  just  now.  She  thought  her  mother  quite  the 
most  entrancing  and  beautiful  person  in  the  world, 
and  so  she  was,  in  her  world. 


10  Drifting  Waters 

She  was  used  to  her  silences. 

Sometimes  they  sat  together  for  hours  without 
speech.  Anne  did  not  mind  that.  She  had  always 
so  much  to  think  about  that  the  moments  were  winged. 
If  thought  failed  there  were  the  wonders  of  the  room. 
If  interest  in  them  flagged,  by  any  odd  chance,  there 
were  always  the  windows  to  look  out  of. 

The  room  was  an  uncommon  one — the  reflection 
of  a  personality.  It  had  long,  low  white  walls  with 
a  frieze  of  crimson  roses,  the  rich  tone  of  which  was 
repeated  in  the  coverings  of  couch  and  chairs.  The 
furniture  was  made  of  carved  black  wood.  The  legs 
of  Anne's  stool  represented  elephants'  heads,  with 
white  tusks  (which  you  could  feel  and  stroke  when 
you  put  down  a  tentative  finger)  and  wonderful 
trunks  which  curved  down  to  the  ground.  Elephants' 
heads  supported  a  table  at  Mrs.  Tudor's  elbow,  which 
was  piled  with  books.  Crimson  and  white  rugs  made 
splashes  of  colour  on  the  black  polished  floor.  Even 
Ponsonby's  perch  was  made  of  black  teak.  There  was 
a  high,  carved  cabinet  full  of  treasures:  Indian  beads, 
butterflies,  shells,  branches  of  white  coral,  lumps  of 
turquoise  matrix,  bits  of  stone  shot  with  glittering 
streaks,  and  last,  but  by  no  means  least,  a  whole  bevy 
of  Indian  servants  in  wax,  with  real  muslin  turbans 
and  draperies.  Anne  loved  these  best  of  all.  She  had 
a  name  and  a  story  for  each,  though  to  her  regret 
she  was  never  allowed  to  touch  them. 

The  curtains  that  hung  on  either  side  of  the  windows 
were  made  of  black  and  silver  stuff  with  little  bits  of 
looking-glass  let  in  here  and  there.  Anne  could  see 
fragments  of  herself  reflected  in  them  if  she  looked 
carefully.     They  glittered  beautifully  in  firelight  or 


The  Episode  1 1 

sunlight,  and  looked  at  times  as  if  they  held  burning 
sparks  within  their  shining  discs. 

For  relief  from  all  the  white  and  crimson  and  black 
there  were  branching  ferns,  bowls  of  violets,  and 
Ponsonby's  lemon-yellow  crest.  It  was  a  strange, 
almost  a  disturbing  room,  but  it  was  wonderful  to 
little  Anne. 

Then  there  were  the  windows. 

From  one  you  had  a  clear  view  across  the  road  to 
the  river,  and  the  wharves  and  chimneys  at  the  other 
side,  against  whose  dusky  grey  outlines  gulls  wheeled 
and  circled,  sometimes  in  winter  whirling  like  a  cloud 
of  giant  snowflakes. 

The  other  window  framed  a  plane-tree.  From 
Anne's  stool,  if  she  looked  at  each  narrow  pane  sepa- 
rately, she  could  see  as  many  tree-pictures  as  there 
were  panes.  One  blocked  with  a  sturdy  flaky  branch, 
another  massed  with  peaked  green  leaves,  another 
exquisite  with  little  spiky  tassels  against  a  bit  of  blue 
sky,  another  crossed  with  a  tracery  of  dark  twigs. 
In  the  summer  sparrows  innumerable  twittered  and 
gossiped  in  its  branches.  In  the  winter  glossy 
starlings  chattered  there  and  whistled  with  a  secret 
elfin  sweetness. 

Now  the  leaves  were  falling  fast.  Anne  loved  to 
hear  them  pattering  after  her  along  the  pavement  in  a 
little  following  wind.  She  knew  that  the  fairies,  as 
Sabina  had  told  her,  were  always  in  "the  whisk  o'  the 
leaves."  Sometimes  they  flew  up  to  the  windows 
and  tapped,  tapped,  tapped  with  tiny  begging  fingers, 
but  when  she  opened  the  window  to  let  them  in  they 
behaved  disappointingly  and  either  fell  sadly  into 
the  area  or  whirled  away  in  a  madder  dance  than  ever. 


12  Drifting  Waters 

They  pattered  now,  but  it  was  no  use  to  open  the 
window  for  them.  The  room  was  full  of  shadows. 
Dark  hollows  seemed  to  open  in  familiar  corners. 
Suddenly  a  log  broke  in  two  and  sent  a  long  flame 
leaping  towards  the  chimney.  It  woke  the  curtains 
to  an  incidental  sparkle  and  lit  Mrs.  Tudor's  face  for 
a  moment,  showing  weary  lines  about  a  mouth  that 
spoke  of  a  strongly  curbed  restlessness.  She  stirred 
slowly  as  if  coming  back  from  a  great  distance  to 
consciousness  of  her  present  surroundings. 

"How  dark  it  is!"  she  said,  shivering  a  little. 
"You're  straining  your  eyes,  Anne.  Put  on  some 
more  logs  and  ring  for  Sabina  to  light  the  lamp.  You 
must  have  light  to  finish  the  wedding-veil  by.  Take 
Ponsonby  off  his  perch  and  bring  him  to  me.  He 
shall  tell  us  what  he  thinks  of  it  all." 

Anne  unhooked  Ponsonby's  chain  and  took  him  to 
her  mother,  who  put  him  on  her  shoulder  while  she 
rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  soft  white  breast.  That 
completed  the  picture,  Anne  thought  as  she  looked 
at  the  two:  the  wise  bird  who  knew  everything  and 
the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  draped  in 
regal  crimson. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  little  solemnity?" 
asked  Mrs.  Tudor  suddenly. 

"I  was  thinking  that  you  look  like  a  tired  queen," 
Anne  answered,  looking  at  her  mother  with  her 
straight,  intent  gaze. 

Mrs.  Tudor  gave  a  queer  little  laugh. 

"A  queen  who  is  tired  of  having  no  kingdom,  you 
mean." 

"Mother,  you  have  a  kingdom!     You  have " 

"Pull  down  the  blinds,  my  Anne,  and  shut  out  the 


f 


The  Episode  13 

night.     It's  making  us  sentimental,  and  that  mustn't 
be." 

"Why  not?  Isn't  sentimental  a  nice  thing  to  be?" 
"Cleverer  folk  than  I  have  said  that  sentimentalism 
is  the  twin-sister  of  cant,  and  that  sentimental  people 
fiddle  harmonies  on  the  strings  of  sensualism !  Neither 
sounds  very  nice — does  it,  my  Anne? — nor  has  added 
very  much  to  the  sum  of  your  general  knowledge." 

"No,"  answered  Anne,  looking  disappointedly  out 
of  the  window.  "I  may  pull  down  the  blinds  now. 
Mr.  Nutkin  has  lit  the  lamps  outside  and  I've  never 
seen  him." 


n 


Anne  had  lived  in  the  little  house  by  the  river  ever 
since  she  could  remember;  always  the  same  sort  of 
life,  at  least  since  she  had  begun  lessons,  which  alter- 
nated at  unequal  intervals  with  holidays  as  the  seasons 
waxed  and  waned.  Mrs.  Tudor  taught  her  French, 
which  she  spoke  with  a  perfect  accent.  It  came 
naturally  to  her,  as  her  mother,  Mrs.  Warrener,  had 
been  a  Parisian.  She  often  spoke  of  her  to  Anne,  who 
seemed  to  know  her  quite  well;  her  lightheartedness, 
her  wit,  her  charm.  She  knew  Grandpapa  Warrener 
too,  but  she  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  him.  He  was 
severe,  rather  stern,  and  had  had  a  loud  voice,  but  a 
kind  heart.  He  had  been  a  soldier,  a  Colonel  indeed, 
"which  is  all  but  being  a  General,"  Sabina  had  told 
her.  He  and  Grandmamma  were  both  dead — had 
died  in  India  of  cholera  before  Anne  was  born.  The 
waxen  Indian  servants  and  most  of  the  treasures  in 
the  cabinet  had  belonged  to  them,  and  added  to  the 


14  Drifting  Waters 

sense  of  romance  in  which  they  were  encircled  for  Anne. 

Of  her  Tudor  relations  her  mother  never  spoke. 

"I  will  tell  you  about  them  some  day,  when  you 
are  older,"  she  had  said  in  answer  to  the  inevitable 
question,  and  with  a  child's  easy  acceptance  Anne 
had  tucked  away  the  answer  into  the  recesses  of  her 
consciousness,  and  queried  no  further. 

She  had  no  other  children  to  play  with.  Such 
games  as  she  had  were  either  played  alone  or  with  the 
aid  of  Sabina,  who  was  another  very  wonderful  per- 
son. Not  on  the  same  plane  of  wonderfulness,  of 
course,  as  her  mother,  neither  so  inscrutable  nor  so 
entrancing.  Still  in  a  more  every-day  practical  way 
Sabina  was  really  remarkable. 

To  begin  with,  in  her  early  youth  a  playful  brother 
had  broken  her  nose,  causing  that  harmless  necessary 
feature  to  stick  out  where  it  should  stick  in  and  stick 
in  where  it  should  stick  out.  Anne  thought  it 
was  very  clever  of  her  to  have  achieved  a  nose  so 
unlike  those  of  more  ordinary  mortals,  and  once 
expressed  a  hope  that  she  had  been  duly  grateful  to 
the  brother  whose  boyish  action  had  attained  such  a 
result. 

"I  was,  in  me  hat,"  said  Sabina,  with  fierce  but 
pardonable  vulgarity.  "I  give  him  as  good  a  clout 
as  ever  he  got!  One  that  astonished  him  too,  mark 
me  word!  But  mind  you.  Miss  Anne,  you're  not  to 
say  'clout'  or  'in  me  hat'  because  I  do." 

"Why  not,  Sabina?" 

"Because  you're  'quality,'  and  I'm  not,"  Sabina 
answered. 

This  was  always  her  annoying  reason  for  the  restric- 
tions which  she  frequently  imposed  upon  Anne — 


The  Episode  15 

restrictions  applied  to  things  other  than  her  vocabu- 
lary, which  always  seemed  to  the  child  to  be  more  vivid 
and  full  of  colour  than  the  tamer  language  which  she 
was  allowed  to  use. 

For  instance,  if  they  happened  to  be  crossing  a  bridge 
when  a  steamer  went  under,  Anne  always  tugged 
at  Sabina's  hand  to  make  her  run  to  the  other  side  to 
see  it  "put  its  ears  up  again."  Sabina  objected  to 
this.  She  said  it  was  what  all  the  common  little  boys 
and  girls  did,  and  that  the  reason  they  ran  so  quickly 
was  in  order  to  be  in  time  to  spit  on  the  steamers  as 
they  came  and  went. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  spit  on  the  steamers.  I  never 
thought  of  doing  such  a  thing,"  Anne  protested.  "I 
only  want  to  see  them  put  their  ears  back  and  then 
stick  them  up  again." 

"Ears  is  ears,  and  funnels  is  funnels,  and  one  is  no 
more  like  the  other  than  quality  is  like  commonality — 
or  should  be,"  retorted  Sabina  crushingly. 

"The  same  God  made  both,  Sabina." 

"And  if  He  did  none  knows  the  differ  better  than 
Himself,  with  respects."  Thus  Sabina  clinched  the 
argument. 

Anne  loved  the  river  at  this  period  of  her  life  be- 
cause such  delightful  things  were  always  happening 
on  it :  fussy  tugs  puffing  past  towing  barges  and  light- 
ers laden  with  timber,  bales  of  paper,  coal,  and  other 
interesting  freight;  large  barges  with  sloping  masts 
and  red  sails  tucked  away  at  odd  angles,  full  of  casks 
or  corn-sacks;  others  with  painted  prows  and  fascin- 
ating little  deck-houses,  from  which  sometimes  child- 
ren and  young  women  came  out  to  wave  or  stare  with 
conscious  superiority. 


i6  Drifting  Waters 

How  Anne  envied  them  their  life  of  adventure  in 
such  entrancing  craft ! 

There  were  also  the  River  Police  Boats.  To  Anne 
there  was  always  something  rather  shivery  and  myste- 
rious about  these.  Sabina  told  her  that  they  "picked 
drowning  people  out  of  the  water,"  but  as  she  knew 
that  they  arrested  wicked  people  as  well  it  always 
gave  her  a  cold  thrill  to  see  them  threading  their 
sinister  way  among  the  ordinary  innocent  traffic  of 
the  great  waterway.  She  always  half-expected  to 
see  the  cold  glint  of  handcuffs  as  they  glided  noiselessly 
away. 

Then  there  were  the  summer  steamers,  full  of  most 
surprising  and  interesting  people,  and  "a  band  too, 
mind  you!"  to  quote  Sabina.  One  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day  Sabina  had  taken  her  in  one  to  Green- 
wich— a  veritable  Odyssey  for  Anne,  round  which  her 
imagination  afterwards  wove  a  cloak  of  fantasy  more 
vivid  than  Joseph's  Coat  of  Many  Colours.  They 
had  passed  the  grim  Tower,  "where  people's  heads 
were  chopped  off  long  ago,"  and  they  had  gone  to  a 
vast  painted  Hall,  where  they  saw  all  sorts  of  things 
in  glass  cases,  which  Sabina  said  were  the  Nelson 
Relics. 

"Relic"  seemed  to  Anne  to  be  an  elastic  word,  for 
it  embraced  many  and  various  objects,  from  darned 
woollen  stockings  to  a  little  pigtail  of  real  hair!  She 
thought  it  was  rather  unkind  to  have  cut  off  poor 
Nelson's  pigtail,  but  the  ways  of  Big  People  were 
past  comprehension. 

Soon  afterwards,  when  Sabina  read  from  the  paper 
one  evening  the  announcement  of  the  death  of  Miss 
Carmichael's  aunt — "Emily  Jane,  relict  of  the  late 


The  Episode  17 

Gregory  Carmichael" — Anne's  mind  immediately 
flashed  to  the  memory  of  the  pigtail  in  the  glass  case, 
and  asked  Sabina  what  the  word  "relict "  really  meant. 

Sabina  replied  that  it  meant  a  widow,  and  for  a 
long  time  afterwards  widows  and  pigtails  were  linked 
together  in  Anne's  mind  in  an  inextricable  incongruity. 
The  only  explanation  which  her  puzzled  brain  caught 
at  after  hours  of  bewilderment  was  this:  Sabina  had 
once  said  that  man  and  wife  were  one.  If  that  was 
so  then  man  and  his  pigtail  (in  the  days  when  they 
wore  pigtails)  were  undoubtedly  one  as  well,  therefore 
it  must  be  in  touching  reference  to  the  oneness  of 
matrimony  that  a  man's  widow  was  also  referred  to 
as  his  relic!  This  partly  satisfied  Anne,  whose  active 
brain  worried  itself  over  the  riddles  of  life  until  they 
found  some  not  too  unsatisfactory  answer  to  them. 

She  wanted  to  see  the  Nelson  Relics  again,  but 
Mrs.  Tudor  forbade  further  excursions.  She  had 
such  a  morbid  dread  of  Anne's  catching  any  disease 
that  it  prompted  her  to  keep  the  child  in  an  isolation 
which  might  have  had  disastrous  results.  As  it  was 
it  made  her  both  young  and  old  for  her  years,  and 
drove  her  to  an  introspection  which  her  own  innocence 
and  Sabina 's  watchfulness  prevented  from  becoming 
abnormal  or  unhealthy. 

She  was  a  highly  sensitive  child,  and  shrank  from 
giving  or  even  seeing  pain.  Here,  where  her  mother's 
fierce  shielding  might  have  made  Anne  morbidly 
selfish,  Sabina's  sturdy  commonsense  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"Pain  is  in  the  world,  and  always  will  be,"  she  de- 
clared, "and  you'll  have  to  bear  it.  Miss  Anne,  as  well 
as  everyone  else.      There's  no  use  in  shutting  your 


i8  Drifting  Waters 

eyes  on  a  thing  and  then  pretending  it  isn't  there.  It 
is,  and  you'll  see  it  for  yourself  the  minute  you  blink 
an  eyelash.  What's  your  business  is,  how  to  pervent 
it;  and  if  you  can't  pervent  it,  how  to  cure  it.  Then 
you'll  be  some  use  in  the  world,  for  indeed  it's  not 
much  of  an  ornament  you  are,  child." 

Disparagement  of  personal  appearance  lest  vanity 
should  ensue  was  one  of  Sabina's  creeds,  a  process  as 
disagreeably  bracing  as  an  east  wind  to  Anne's  sus- 
ceptibilities. Appreciation  and  belief  brought  out 
her  best  qualities,  and  these  she  scarcely  divined 
under  the  husk  of  Sabina's  roughness.  Still,  the  two 
were  fast  friends,  despite  occasional  jars. 

Anne  adored  her  mother,  as  saint  in  shrine,  but  it 
was  to  Sabina  that  she  took  her  little  human  needs 
and  sorrows:  a  cut  finger,  a  bruised  knee,  a  broken  toy. 

"  Mother  mustn't  be  worried,"  was  one  of  her  rules, 
and  she  lived  by  it  faithfully. 

Dimly  she  apprehended  some  mystery,  some  sorrow 
in  her  mother's  life  which  her  touch  was  powerless 
to  soothe.  That  her  mother  loved  her  Anne  knew 
with  every  fibre  of  her  being,  but  between  them  and 
perfect  understanding  was  a  barrier,  invisible  but  real 
as  a  wall  of  glass.  It  was  what  Mrs.  Tudor  withheld 
from  Anne  that  raised  that  intangible  barrier.  To 
her  withdrawals  Anne  presented  the  queer  reticences 
of  the  child  who  lives  in  the  miracle  of  commonplace. 
There  were  corners  in  Anne's  heart  and  mind  to  which 
her  mother  never  penetrated — a  secret  garden  to 
which  she  had  no  key.  Now  and  then  she  caught 
glimpses  of  the  blossoms  that  grew  there,  and  thought 
that  she  had  seen  all,  but  she  had  not.  She  would 
have  said  that  she  knew  Anne's  every  thought,  but 


The  Episode  19 

the  brooding  obsession  of  her  own  life  dulled  the  quick- 
ness of  her  inner  perceptions.  Of  Anne  at  play  she 
knew  little  or  nothing ;  of  Anne  soaring  through  magic 
casements  on  the  wings  of  her  spirit  she  knew  less, 
yet  her  love  for  the  child  was  the  one  warm  human 
influence  in  her  life. 

"Is  mother  a  relict?"  Anne  asked  Sabina  once. 

"A  what,  Miss  Anne?" 

"A  widow,"  Anne  returned. 

Sabina  gasped.  Standing  thus,  with  round  light 
eyes  and  gaping  mouth,  she  reminded  Anne  of  a  fish 
she  had  seen  in  the  fishmonger's  basket  one  morning. 
But  Sabina  was  never  at  a  loss.  Recovering  herself 
instantly,  she  nodded  her  head  two  or  three  times 
to  cloak  her  temporary  discomfiture. 

"  In  a  manner  of  speaking,  so  to  say,"  she  answered. 
"Poor  lady!  Poor  lady!  You'll  want  to  be  very 
good  to  her.  Miss  Anne." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Anne.  "It's  only  to  you  I'm  ever 
naughty,  Sabina." 

"That's  true  for  you,"  retorted  Sabina,  and  began 
at  once  an  epic  recital  of  Anne's  misdemeanours  since 
the  year  one. 

The  suggestion  remained  with  the  child  that  her 
mother  was  a  sort  of  widow,  a  very  bad  sort,  she  sup- 
posed, and  therefore  to  be  more  closely  enshrined, 
more  shielded  from  annoyance  than  ever. 

Of  humbler  friends  there  were  Mrs.  Nutkin,  the 
charwoman,  and  her  wonderful  son  who  lit  the  lamps 
along  the  Embankment  when  dusk  fell.  She  now 
knew  what  the  expression  "to  run  like  a  lamplighter" 
meant,  but  Mr.  Nutkin  (familiarly  called  Billy  by  his 
mother  and  Sabina)  always  slackened  his  speed  as  he 


20  Drifting  Waters 

passed  Caroline  Place  to  touch  his  hat  in  answer  to 
Anne's  little  wave. 

There  were  the  organ-man  (better  known  as  the 
monkey-man),  with  bright  eyes  and  bushy  black 
beard,  and  a  shivering  monkey  in  plaid  petticoat  and 
round  scarlet  cap,  who  took  pennies  from  Anne's  hand 
with  a  cold  little  paw.  The  monkey-man's  eyes  and 
Jacko's  were  exactly  alike.  At  first  Anne  thought 
that  they  were  father  and  son,  but  that  was  when  she 
was  very  little,  and  she  did  not  like  to  be  reminded 
of  her  mistake. 

The  Punch  and  Judy  man  was  another  friend,  or 
rather  acquaintance,  for  Anne  was  a  little  frightened 
of  his  red  face  and  alternately  hoarse  and  squeaky 
voice.  Dog  Toby  she  loved,  and  when  the  Wheel  of 
Time  swept  monkey-man  and  Punch  and  Judy  from 
the  sphere  of  her  orbit  she  mo\irned  them  for  many 
days. 

It  was  pleasant  to  find  that  the  muffin-man,  that 
cheery  bell-ringing  harbinger  of  winter,  was  a  brother 
of  the  late  Mr.  Nutkin,  a  tribe  whose  name  must  surely 
be  engraved  on  the  scroll  of  Fame.  Anne  thought  it 
was  extraordinary  to  have  a  combination  of  two  such 
wonderful  trades  in  one  family,  and  questioned  Mrs. 
Nutkin  as  to  whether  Billy  the  lamplighter  helped 
his  Uncle  Albert  the  muffin-man  to  create  his  pale 
plump  wares  in  his  leisure  hours  of  daylight. 

Mrs.  Nutkin  laughed  comfortably. 

"Bless  yer  little  'art,  no.  Miss.  My  Billy's  a  reglar 
night  bird,  that's  wot  'e  is.  Light  the  lamps  fust,  'e 
do,  and  then  acts  as  night-watchman  at  'Obb's  Stores." 

Anne  was  vaguely  disappointed;  she  did  not  know 
why.     Then  a  picture  flashed  before  her  mind  of  the 


The  Episode  21 

lamplighter  in  his  new  guise,  standing  still  on  guard 
within  the  sleeping  stores,  or  quietly  patrolling  the 
different  departments  in  search  of  possible  burglars — 
Woollens,  with  their  heavy  lurking  bales;  Boots  and 
Shoes,  that  might  come  pattering  after  one  at  any 
moment;  Linen,  with  chill  muslin  curtains  wavering 
about  one  like  ghosts;  furniture,  with  basket-chairs 
that  creaked  and  groaned.  She  felt  that  the  r61e  of 
night  watchman  added  fresh  lustre  to  the  aura  of 
interest  which  already  surrounded  him.  Pursuing 
her  researches  she  asked  again  if  Mrs.  Nutkin  helped 
Mr.  Albert  to  make  his  beautiful  muffins. 

Mrs.  Nutkin  laughed  and  looked  across  the  kitchen 
at  Sabina. 

"Bless  'er  'art,  wot  a  child  it  is!  Indeed  I  don't, 
dearie.  Bert  gets  the  muffins  at  a  cumfecsner's  and 
sells  'em  on  commission." 

"Is  that  the  long  name  for  his  tray?"  asked  Anne 
politely,  and  attributed  the  gale  of  laughter  that  shook 
the  kitchen  to  the  perverted  sense  of  humour  of  the 
Big  People. 

"She  a  little  dear,  that's  wot  she  is,"  she  heard  Mrs. 
Nutkin  say  as  she  left  the  kitchen.  "It's  a  rare  pity 
'er  ma  don't  marry  again  and  give  'er  a  baker's  dozen 
of  brothers  and  sisters.  Old-fashioned,  that's  wot 
I  calls  'er." 

"  I  don't  hold  with  them  kind  of  marriages."  Sa- 
bina's  voice  rang  shrill  and  stiff  behind  her  as  she 
mounted  the  stairs. 

She  wondered  why,  but  knowing  as  she  did  that  her 
mother's  widowhood  was  a  very  special  sort  she  dis- 
missed the  subject  from  her  mind  with  a  comfortable 
sense  of  security. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  EVENT 


CAROLINE  PLACE  consisted  of  three  narrow 
cream-coloiired  houses  tucked  away  at  the 
wrong  end  of  the  Embankment.  Once  the  locality 
had  been  a  fashionable  one,  but,  as  the  riverside 
business  spread,  the  tide  of  fancy  receded  fastidiously 
westward  and  left  Caroline  Place  stranded  upon  an 
oasis  of  gentility. 

The  Tudors  lived  in  No.  I. 

Dr.  Waldron  lived  in  No.  2. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  with  a  mother  whose  social 
efforts  Mrs.  Tudor  ignorjed,  in  a  sweeping  patrician 
way  which  caused  Mrs.  Waldron  to  dislike  her  with  a 
fervour  that  would  have  aroused  a  faint  amusement 
in  the  lady's  breast  had  she  been  sufficiently  interested 
in  her  neighbour  to  become  aware  of  it. 

Dr.  Waldron  was  a  kind  young  man,  who  had  at- 
tended Anne  in  her  rare  youthful  crises.  He  was 
very  tall,  very  thin,  and  very  busy.  He  had  nice  eyes, 
which  twinkled  when  they  had  time,  but,  as  he  had 
an  enormous  poor  practice  in  the  neighbouring  pur- 
lieus, he  spent  his  days  flashing  here  and  there  on  a 
bicycle  at  what  was  frequently  a  dangerous  rate  of 

22 


The  Event  23 

speed.  To  his  credit  be  it  said  that  he  never  knocked 
down  a  child  or  ran  over  a  dog,  though  he  roared  them 
less  gently  than  a  sucking  dove  whenever  they  got  in 
his  way. 

No.  3  was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Chalfont-Smythe,  who 
"let  lodgings,"  as  Sabina  vulgarly  put  it,  but  who, 
having  really  seen  better  days,  was  very  particular 
about  her  hyphen  and  the  length  of  her  "y." 

The  "comfortable  and  refined  home"  which  sjie 
had  been  obliged  to  offer  to  the  properly  accredited 
in  the  early  days  of  her  descent  had  been  availed  of 
for  as  long  as  Anne  could  remember  by  Miss  Car- 
michael  (an  archdeacon's  daughter),  who,  by  stress  of 
circumstance  and  lack  of  archidiaconal  foresight  in 
the  matter  of  investments,  was  forced  to  turn  her 
attention  to  the  bending  in  the  proper  educational 
direction  of  specially  selected  young  twigs  of  whom 
Anne  was  one. 

Miss  Carmichael  was  fair,  and  Anne  admired  her 
greatly,  though  her  fluffy  hair  had  faded  to  a  non- 
descript hue  and  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  seemed  to 
have  spread  a  little  and  got  fixed  thus.  She  had  blue- 
grey  eyes,  and  as  blue  had  always  been  her  "colour" 
she  generally  wore  a  little  bit  of  it  somewhere,  in 
scarf,  or  tie,  or  ribbon.  She  knew  all  about  such 
interesting  and  mysterious  things  as  Dorcases,  Bands 
of  Hope,  and  Mothers'  Meetings.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
tale  of  the  latter  which  had  drawn  forth  the  fatal 
question  of  Anne's  that  had  made  her  cry. 

Miss  Carmichael  had  other  pupils  besides  Anne. 
There  were  the  little  Thorpes,  whose  mother  was 
dead  and  who  lived  with  their  grandmother  in  Sloane 
Gardens. 


24  Drifting  Waters 

Miss  Carmichael,  always  gentle  and  tactful,  ad- 
mitted that  perhaps  they  were  a  little  spoilt,  but  that 
they  had  good  hearts.  Of  her  other  pupil,  Sylvia 
Burton,  Lady  Burton's  only  child,  she  spoke  in  terms 
of  the  utmost  enthusiasm.  Sylvia  Burton  always 
knew  her  lessons,  was  always  punctual,  neat,  and  tidy, 
did  an  extra  page  of  German  translation  from  choice, 
practised  for  an  hour  and  a  half  because  she  liked  it — 
was,  in  fact,  a  paragon  of  all  the  virtues,  and  held  up 
to  Anne  as  such,  until  she  loathed  the  very  mention 
of  her  name.  She  longed  wickedly  to  be  able  to  ruffle 
Sylvia's  pale  tidiness,  to  pull  her  smooth  fair  curls, 
to  rouse  her  to  some  honest  human  naughtiness,  for 
certainly  no  girl  of  eleven  could  possibly  do  German 
translation  or  extra  practising  because  she  liked  it. 
Anne  could  credit  the  existence  of  fairies,  dragons, 
witches,  elves,  mermaids,  unicorns,  and  sea-serpents, 
but  she  could  not  believe  that ! 

The  other  sharer  of  Mrs.  Chalfont-Smythe's  com- 
fortable and  refined  home  was  M.  du  Savenay,  who 
did  nothing  in  particular  as  far  as  Anne  knew,  "but 
did  it  very  well."  He  was  of  the  old  French  no- 
hlesse.  His  grandparents  had  taken  their  last  view 
of  this  world  through  what  the  Knitting  Women  of 
the  Revolution  poetically  called  "the  Little  Window." 
His  parents,  babes  at  the  time,  had  been  romantically 
saved  by  a  servant.  He  was  too  poor  to  live  in  Paris 
as  befitted  a  du  Savenay,  and  too  proud  to  stay  there 
under  any  other  conditions.  Therefore  he  existed 
quietly  but  not  unbeautifully  in  Caroline  Place,  earn- 
ing a  little  money  in  ways  honourable  but  strictly 
secret  to  himself,  cherishing  the  romance  of  his  later 
age  in  his  friendship  with  the  beautiful,  sad,  embittered 


The  Event  25 

Mrs.  Tudor,  the  only  woman  of  his  world  whom  he 
ever  met.  He  came  in  occasionally  to  No.  i  to  play 
picquet  with  her,  or  to  talk,  with  pauses  of  mutual 
understanding,  in  his  beautiful  rippling  French. 
Sometimes  he  talked  to  Anne,  who  loved  him. 

He  cut  paper  dolls  and  walnut-shell  boats  and 
cradles  for  her  when  she  was  little,  and  carved  minute 
wonders  for  her  out  of  peach  and  cherry  stones  when 
she  grew  bigger.  He  treated  her  with  delightful 
deference,  too,  and  taught  her  how  to  sweep  him  a 
real  curtsey  in  response  to  his  elaborate  bow.  He 
lived  in  the  past — the  ghostly  days  of  a  dead  France. 
Mrs.  Tudor  also  lived  in  her  past,  and  it  forged  a  link 
between  them. 

He  taught,  for  love,  his  own  musical  tongue  to  an 
evening  class  of  boys  at  a  Catholic  Mission  in  Pimlico. 
They  called  him  "Froggy"  and  "Frenchy-Hi"  behind 
his  back,  and  laughed  at  the  utter  silliness  of  the 
French  language  as  compared  with  English;  but  they 
never  mocked  him  to  his  face  since  one  night  when 
he  had  found  some  of  them  tormenting  a  cat  in  the 
gutter.  No  one  present  ever  forgot  how  his  eyes  had 
shot  fire  on  that  historic  occasion ;  how  he  had  caught 
the  two  ringleaders  and  knocked  their  heads  together; 
how  he  had  hissed  through  clenched  teeth  the  horrible- 
sounding  word  canaille!  and  worse! 

They  recognized  dimly  some  moral  force  that  lay 
behind  "  Frenchy-Hi's "  polished  suavity  of  manner, 
and  played  as  few  tricks  in  his  class  as  they  did  in 
those  of  any  of  the  English  teachers :  a  negative  tribute 
of  which  M.  du  Savenay  was  calmly  unaware. 

Such  were  the  friends  of  Anne's  youth,  the  mould- 
ing influences  of  her  plastic  days. 


26  Drifting  Waters 

Of  real  playfellows  she  had  none  closer  than  her 
hoop  in  winter  and  her  ball  in  summer.  Yet  each 
was  a  sentient  being  to  her,  a  friend  who  shared  her 
every  thought. 

The  ball,  an  excellent  bouncer  with  melon-slices  of 
red  and  green,  was  called  Tawdy,  and  knew  her  hand 
as  bird  knows  bough. 

The  hoop,  Dilryn,  was  swallow-swift  and  responsive 
to  her  lightest  touch.  The  sympathy  between  them 
was  very  real:  a  sympathy  as  true  in  essence  as  that 
between  yacht  and  steersman,  violin  and  player. 
She  loved  the  quick  response  of  Tawdy,  the  swift 
answering  swerve  of  Dilryn,  and  as  no  one  but  herself 
knew  of  their  personality  (for  this  was  certainly  one 
of  the  things  which  the  Big  People  would  not  under- 
stand) there  was  no  one  to  laugh  her  out  of  her  fancies 
or  to  call  her  silly. 

When,  later,  both  Tawdy  and  Dilryn  were  inevit- 
ably sacrificed  upon  the  Pyre  of  Things  Outgrown, 
their  memory  lingered  in  the  occasional  incense  of  a 
sigh  for  what  has  once  been  loved  but  never  really 
forgotten. 

So  Anne  grew  in  body  and  mind  until  she  reached 
her  teens  and  left  irresponsible  childhood  behind 
her. 

"  Miss  in  her  teens  is  a  big  girl  now,  and  on  her  way 
to  being  a  young  lady,"  Sabina  reminded  her  on  her 
thirteenth  birthday. 

But  somehow  Anne  did  not  feel  very  different.  Her 
black  silk-clad  legs  were  longer,  that  was  all,  and  she 
was  painfully  conscious  of  her  knees  until  her  mother 
took  her  to  Peter  Robinson's  to  get  her  a  new  winter 
frock  and  coat. 


The  Event  2^ 


II 


It  was  after  Christmas  that  the  Event  happened. 
A  frosty  day,  with  haze  enough  to  soften  the  hard 
outlines  and  endue  distances  with  a  hyacinth  mystery, 
and  sunshine  enough  to  light  the  yellow  patches  on 
the  trunks  of  the  plane-trees  and  warm  the  winter 
greys  with  a  fleeting  gold. 

Anne  ran  into  the  sitting-room  fresh  from  a  walk. 

"Here's  a  cool  cheek  for  you,  mother,"  she  cried, 
putting  her  soft  young  face,  fragrant  with  the  frosty 
air,  against  her  mother's  hot  one. 

Mrs.  Tudor  kissed  it  perfunctorily,  crumpling  the 
letter  which  she  held  in  her  hands. 

Anne  noticed  the  action  and  drew  back  quickly. 
She  wondered  if  her  mother  thought  she  had  wanted 
to  read  it.  The  thought  stung  a  little  until  she  looked 
at  Mrs.  Tudor's  face  and  saw  by  it  that  her  thoughts 
were  far  away  on  that  long  trail  whither  the  child's 
could  never  follow  her. 

"Nothing  has  happened  to  annoy  you,  dearest?" 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Tudor  answered,  still  from  that  chilling 
distance.  "No.  Oh,  no."  She  smoothed  out  the 
letter  and  read  it  again. 

Then  she  looked  directly  at  Anne. 

Her  impassivity  was  broken  up,  as  ice-fields  break 
at  the  touch  of  Spring ;  her  eyes  were  alight  with  some 
new  emotion.  Hope?  Longing?  Anne  was  too 
young  to  read  it  aright,  but  she  saw  the  change  and 
wondered  at  it. 

"I  shall  want  you  to  come  somewhere  with  me  this 
afternoon,  Anne,"  she  said,  coming  back  at  last. 


28  Drifting  Waters 

This  was  sure  ground.  Anne's  spirits  leapt  upward 
with  a  bound.  Excursions  with  her  mother  were  as 
rare  as  they  were  delightful. 

"What  a  speaking  face  you  have,  child!"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor,  with  an  excited  laugh.  "You  will  have  to 
curb  your  emotions  when  you  grow  older  for  fear  of 
giving  yourself  away." 

Anne  laughed  too.  "I'll  never  do  that,  mother. 
I'll  always  belong  to  myself." 

A  sudden  blight  fell  on  Mrs.  Tudor 's  gaiety.  Her 
mouth  hardened. 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  she  said  quickly.  "No 
woman  ever  does.  Some  day,  for  your  sins  and  mine 
you'll  belong  to  someone  else,  body  and  soul.  When 
that  day  comes  I  wonder  how  you'll  feel  towards  me 
for  having  borne  you.     I  wonder?     I  wonder?" 

"I'll  feel  the  same  as  I  always  do.  Of  course  I  will, 
mother,"  Anne  protested,  half  understanding  that 
some  impossible  condemnation  was  implied. 

"I  wonder?"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  again.  "But  you're 
like  me  there,  Anne.  You  don't  change.  Perhaps 
when  that  day  comes  you'll  wish  also  that  I  hadn't 
passed  on  that  trait  to  you.  Perhaps  you'll  think,  as 
I  do,  that  a  butterfly  nature  is  the  greatest  gift  one 
can  own.  To  flit  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  to  live 
lightly  from  day  to  day,  and  not  to  care.  My  God, 
not  to  care!"  She  spoke  the  last  words  under  her 
breath  as  if  to  herself. 

Anne  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  longing  un- 
comfortably for  the  return  of  the  light  which  had  fled 
from  her  mother's  face.  She  felt  intuitively  that  her 
mother  suffered  from  the  memory  of  some  great  wrong ; 
or   some  irrevocable  mistake;    something   that    had 


The  Event  29 

withered  her  joy  in  living  and  set  her  apart  from  the 
simple  needs  and  pleasures  of  every  day.  Woman- 
hood was  coming  early  to  birth  in  Anne  Tudor. 
"Miss  in  her  teens  was  no  longer  a  child,"  as  Sabina 
had  truly  said.  For  the  first  time  Anne  longed  to 
know,  to  understand,  to  comfort;  but  with  the  new 
desire  arose  also  a  new  shyness  which  made  it  sud- 
denly impossible  for  her  to  touch  upon  anything  so 
intimate. 

"But  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  my  Anne," 
said  Mrs.  Tudor,  shaking  off  whatever  mood  had 
possessed  her.  "You  are  to  come  with  me  this  after- 
noon to  see  that  most  respectable  and  responsible  of 
all  created  beings,  the  English  family  solicitor!" 

"Mr.  Cromwell,"  said  Anne  quickly.  She  knew 
that  her  mother  paid  periodical  visits  to  Mr.  Crom- 
well, who  took  care  of  her  money  for  her  and  gave  her 
advice  on  which  she  never  acted. 

Mrs.  Tudor  shook  her  head. 

"Not  Mr.  Cromwell  this  time.  A  gentleman  of 
blood  and  iron  named  Bentley." 

' '  Blood  and  iron !     Mother,  that  sounds  horrid ! ' ' 

"I  spoke  figuratively,  my  Anne.  If  I  had  spoken 
literally  I  should  have  omitted  the  blood.  However, 
in  spite  of  his  lack  of  red  corpuscles,  you  must  wear 
your  very  best  clothes,  my  littlest,  as  I  am  going  to 
do."     She  rose  suddenly. 

When  she  did  that  Anne  always  had  a  vision  of  the 
Eastern  Genie  rising  from  the  bottle,  so  swiftly  majes- 
tic was  the  change  from  her  normal  immobility. 

She  turned  up  Anne's  face  to  the  light  and  gazed 
at  it  intently  for  a  moment.  Then  her  lips  quivered 
and  she  flung  passionate  arms  round  the  child. 


30  Drifting  Waters 

"Oh,  Anne!  My  darling!"  she  cried  with  a  break 
in  her  voice  that  was  almost  a  sob.     "My  darling!" 

Anne  strained  closer  to  her,  stirred  by  some  sense 
of  tragedy  to  a  passion  of  adoration  which  she  tried 
to  express  in  her  clinging  arms.  Words  would  not 
come;  they  seemed  to  mean  nothing. 

"Mother!"  she  murmured.  It  seemed  all  that 
there  was  to  say. 

Something  in  the  child's  ardour  reached  and  stilled 
Mrs.  Tudor.  She  gently  disengaged  herself  as  Sabina 
came  in  to  say  that  luncheon  was  ready,  giving  a  swift 
glance  towards  Anne  that  seemed  to  establish  a  secret 
understanding  between  them. 

"I  shall  want  a  hansom  at  half-past  two,  Sabina," 
she  said.  "  Miss  Anne  and  I  have  a  business  appoint- 
ment at  a  quarter  to  three." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you  to  walk  it,  ma'am?" 
Sabina  suggested,  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  servant. 
"  'Twould  warm  your  blood  for  you  the  way  you 
wouldn't  be  always  having  to  sit  over  the  fire." 

"No  doubt  you're  right  as  usual,  Sabina,  but  I  am 
too  old  now  to  change  my  lazy  ways.  I  hate  walking 
and  I  love  sitting  by  the  fire.  I  suppose  the  fact  of 
having  been  born  in  India  added  to  my  natural  sloth." 

"Where  was  I  born?"  asked  Anne. 

' '  In  India,  too,  of  course.  Where  else  ? ' '  said  Sabina 
crossly,  with  a  quick  look  at  her  mistress. 

"I  might  have  been  born  anywhere,  silly  old  thing. 
Lots  of  people  aren't  born  in  India.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  before,  mother?" 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  wearily. 

"Miss  Anne,  will  you  eat  j'our  luncheon  and  stop 
bothering  the  mistress  with  your  foolish  questions?" 


The  Event  31 

"I'm  not  bothering  you,  am  I,  mother?"  began 
Anne  indignantly. 

"Please  stop  wrangling,  both  you  and  Sabina,  and 
let  me  have  at  least  one  meal  in  peace,"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor  petulantly. 

Anne's  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears.  She  felt  as 
if  her  food  would  choke  her,  but  she  must  not  let  her 
mother  see  that  she  had  hurt  her.  She  continued  to 
eat  her  luncheon,  in  silence,  washing  down  the  reluc- 
tant meal  with  copious  draughts  of  water.  If  one  or 
two  unwilling  drops  overflowed  elsewhere  and  ran 
down  her  cheeks  it  was  easy  to  cover  their  appearance 
by  the  judicious  use  of  one's  napkin  when  Sabina  was 
out  of  the  room. 

After  the  last  of  these  tactful  exercises  Mrs.  Tudor 
looked  across  the  table  and  smiled. 

"Little  silly!"  she  said,  holding  out  the  hand  with 
the  ruby  on  it. 

Anne  caught  and  squeezed  it  silently. 

"Really  you  and  Sabina  are  enough  to  exasperate  a 
saint,"  Mrs.  Tudor  continued.  "Sabina  with  her 
tact  and  you — well,  really,  my  Anne,  it  isn't  you  at 
all!" 

She  smiled  again,  and  all  was  right  with  the  world 
once  more. 

"  Not  that  I  ever  pretended  to  be  a  saint,"  she  went 
on.  "Except  perhaps  once,  and  that  I've  regretted 
all  my  life.  Another  thing  for  you  to  avoid,  Anne. 
Don't  pose  as  a  saint,  or  let  any  man  persuade  you 
that  you're  one.  Don't  let  him  persuade  himself 
either.  Women  are  only  ordinary  human  beings, 
and  the  fewer  illusions  there  are  on  that  subject 
the  better  for  both." 


32  Drifting  Waters 

"Aren't  men  ordinary  human  beings  too?" 

Mrs.  Tudor  paused  for  a  moment. 

"Men,"  she  began  slowly.  "Men  are — "  she 
stopped  abruptly. 

"Different  sorts,  I  suppose,"  supplemented  Anne 
cheerfully. 

"Well,  we'll  leave  it  at  that,  my  Anne.  Yes.  I 
suppose  so.     Different  sorts." 


Ill 


If  Mrs.  Tudor  reminded  Anne  of  a  tired  queen  when 
she  sat  indoors  she  reminded  her  of  one  of  du  Maurier's 
aristocratic  ladies  when  she  was  dressed  to  go  out. 
Something  in  her  graceful  length  of  line,  her  floating 
scarf  or  veil,  her  look  of  finish,  of  breeding,  seemed  to 
place  Mrs.  Tudor  inevitably  upon  the  plane  upon 
which  these  gracious  creatures  lived  and  moved. 

Today  she  wore  her  old  unfashionably-cut  sable 
cape  as  if  it  were  a  royal  mantle. 

Anne  brought  her  a  bunch  of  violets  from  the  back- 
garden,  which  she  pinned  at  her  breast.  Ever  after- 
wards the  scent  of  violets  flashed  back  the  memory  of 
that  day  to  Anne. 

There  was  always  an  excitement,  an  exhilaration 
in  driving  in  a  hansom.  The  one  which  Sabina  had 
reluctantly  fetched  was  a  particularly  smart  affair. 
The  nickel  of  cab  and  harness  shone  like  silver;  the 
horse  had  red  rosettes  at  his  ears ;  the  driver  wore  a 
sprig  of  holly  in  his  coat,  and  there  was  another  sprig 
stuck  behind  the  mirror. 

Anne  squeezed  her  mother's  hand  as  they  bowled 
along.      Today  the  grey  streets  seemed  transfigured. 


The  Event  33 

The  sun  shone  upon  the  massive  bulk  of  Lambeth 
Palace,  softening  its  bluff  and  ancient  outlines,  and 
gilding  the  foot-bridge,  which  looked  like  a  giant's 
toy  flung  just  across  the  river;  touching  tower,  carv- 
ing, and  pinnacle  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  to  a 
fairy  beauty,  and  waking  a  vivid  emerald  from  the 
grass  squares  in  front  of  the  Abbey,  where  fat  pigeons 
strutted,  preening  themselves  and  cooing  as  if  it  were 
already  spring.  It  shed  a  kindly  warmth  upon  the 
miserable  figures  huddled  at  intervals  upon  the 
benches.  It  smote  answering  flashes  from  the  brassy 
harness  of  cart-horses,  from  the  glass  windows  of  the 
omnibuses. 

Anne  leaned  forward,  seeing  everything,  absorbing 
everything;  drawing  her  mother's  attention  with  an 
excited  pat,  or  "Look,  mother!     Oh,  look!" 

Once  there  was  a  thrilling  moment  when  an  errand- 
boy  on  a  bicycle  dodged  under  the  very  nose  of  their 
horse,  causing  the  driver  to  pull  up  so  abruptly  that 
the  animal  reared  on  his  hind-legs,  like  the  horses  in 
pictures  or  statues.  Another  breathless  incident 
was  the  discovery  of  the  monkey-man  trundling  his 
organ,  with  Jacko  on  top,  across  Westminster  Bridge. 

Then  the  cab  turned  down  the  Embankment  and 
stopped  with  a  flourish  before  a  large  block  of  build- 
ings. 

"Is  this  the  place?"  asked  Anne,  disappointed  that 
the  drive  had  been  so  short. 

"Yes.     This  is  the  place.     We  must  get  out  here." 

Anne  jumped  out,  thrilled  by  a  sense  of  adventure, 

and  patted  the  horse  while  Mrs.  Tudor  paid  the  m.an. 

Then  she  turned  and  slipped  her  hand  into  her  mother's 

as  they  moved  towards  the  big  entrance-door  of  the 

3 


34  Drifting  Waters 

building.  She  realized  intuitively  that  this  was  a 
crisis  in  which  her  mother  needed  all  the  help  that  she 
could  give  her,  while  that  new  emotion — was  it  shy- 
ness or  perception? — still  held  her  from  speech.  Mrs. 
Tudor  had  spoken  seldom  on  the  journey,  but  Anne 
knew  from  the  quickness  of  her  breath  and  the  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes  that  she  was  moved  beyond  her  wont ; 
that  there  was  pleasure  as  well  as  apprehension  in  the 
coming  interview. 

At  one  side  of  the  door  was  painted  in  black  letters, 
"Messrs.  Bentley  &  Bentley,  2nd  floor."  It  seemed 
to  leap  at  Mrs.  Tudor  from  among  the  other  names. 

"Shall  we  take  the  lift,  mother?" 

"Yes.  No.  I— I  don't  think  so,"  Mrs.  Tudor 
answered,  suddenly  irresolute  and  snatching  at  a 
respite.  "It's  only  on  the  second  floor.  I  fancy  we 
are  a  little  early.     We'll  walk  up  slowly." 

Anne's  idea  of  walking  up  slowly  was  to  stride  up 
the  wide  stone  steps  two  at  a  time  and  hop  back  one, 
while  Mrs.  Tudor  followed  her  with  ever  lagging 
tread.  __ 

At  last  they  reached  the  second  floor  with  its  array 
of  closed,  inhospitable-looking  doors. 

Mrs.  Tudor  pushed  one  open  and  entered. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Tudor,"  she  said  to  the  young  man 
who  came  forward  at  her  approach.  "I  have  an 
appointment  with  Mr.  Bentley  at  a  quarter  to  three." 

"Yes,  madam.  If  you  will  kindly  take  a  chair  for 
a  moment  I  will  inform  Mr.  Bentley  that  you  are 
here." 

Bowing  them  to  two  seats  he  vanished. 

Anne  thought  that  she  had  never  before  seen  any 
one  with  manners  or  hair  so  highly  polished.    She 


The  Event  35 

looked  round  the  room  with  its  high  desks  and  bright 
fire,  withdrawing  her  gaze  politely  as  she  met  the  eyes 
of  the  other  two  clerks.  There  was  a  funny  smell  in 
the  room,  she  thought,  a  smell  of  ink  and — was  it 
brown  paper?  While  she  analysed  the  odour  the 
door  opened  and  the  polished  young  man  returned. 

"If  you  will  kindly  step  this  way,  madam,  Mr. 
Bentley  will  see  you  immediately." 

"Anne,"  began  Mrs.  Tudor  in  a  low  voice.  Then 
she  stopped. 

Anne  looked  up,  saw  that  her  mother's  mouth  was 
quivering,  and  slipped  her  fingers  into  hers  again. 
Thus,  hand  in  hand,  mother  and  daughter  "stepped 
this  way"  and  were  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Bentley. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Tudor  that  she  had 
given  the  child  no  instructions  as  to  her  behaviour. 
She  knew  Anne  and  trusted  her  to  make  her  own 
appeal. 

In  truth  they  made  rather  a  touching  picture  as 
they  stood  together  for  a  moment  framed  in  the  dark 
wood  of  the  doorway;  the  mother,  still  young,  still 
distinguished-looking,  in  her  shabby  old  sable  cape, 
the  child,  tall  and  slim,  with  eyes  that  gazed  earnestly 
across  the  threshold  of  girlhood. 

Mr.  Bentley  came  forward  to  meet  them:  a  hard- 
looking  man  with  frosty  eyes  and  hair  and  a  thin 
mouth;  a  man  whose  geniality  had  no  real  warmth 
behind  it. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Tudor,  it  was  kind  of  you  to  answer  my 
letter  in  person,"  he  said,  placing  a  chair  for  her. 
"And  this  is  the  young  lady." 

"Yes.     This  is  my  daughter  Anne,"  Mrs.  Tudor 


36  Drifting  Waters 

answered,  with  the  faintest  possible  emphasis  on 
the  possessive  pronoun. 

"How  do  you  do,  young  lady?  How  do  you  do?" 
said  Mr.  Bentley,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Very  well,  thank  you."  Anne  replied,  taking 
hers  out  of  her  muff  and  giving  it  to  him. 

He  held  it  for  a  moment  while  their  eyes  met.  His 
were  the  queerest  eyes  Anne  had  ever  seen,  and  in  her 
interest  in  examining  them  she  was  for  the  moment 
unconscious  of  the  closeness  of  their  scrutiny.  At 
first  sight  they  looked  light.  Then  you  were  aware  of 
their  intense  brightness,  a  brightness  which  strangely 
became  dark  and  piercing.  It  penetrated  your  outer 
husk,  clothes  and  all.  It  stripped  you  of  skin,  of  flesh, 
of  bones  until  it  laid  bare  your  naked  soul.  Anne 
suddenly  became  aware  that  it  was  boring  into  that 
as  well,  and  flushing  hotly  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"A  typical  Tudor — in  colouring,"  Mr.  Bentley 
remarked,  seating  himself  again  before  his  desk. 

"In  that  only,  I  hope,"  returned  Mrs.  Tudor,  very 
low.  Anne  saw  that  she  twisted  her  hands  beneath 
the  sable  cape.  Then  she  turned  to  the  child.  ' '  Anne, 
you  can  go  and  look  out  of  the  window.  I  will  call 
you  when  I  want  you." 

Anne  obediently  sauntered  to  the  farthest  window, 
which  looked  down  on  the  Embankment  and  across 
the  river.  There  was  something  steadying  in  the 
view  of  the  familiar  waterway,  subtly  different  as 
was  its  winding  curve  seen  from  this  angle. 

The  afternoon  sunlight  shimmered  on  its  silvery 
stretches.  Away  in  the  west  the  haze  of  London  was 
turning  roseate.  A  woman  leaned  on  the  parapet 
of   the   Embankment   feeding   gulls   with   scraps   of 


The  Event  37 

bread,  which  she  threw  into  the  air.  The  birds,  a 
cloud  of  white  and  grey,  circled  and  swooped  scream- 
ing about  her.  A  ragged  urchin,  blue  with  cold, 
stooped  and  snatched  some  crusts  which  she  had 
dropped. 

Trams  loomed  gigantic  among  the  smaller  traffic 
and  hummed  busily  along  the  roadway,  making  an 
accompaniment  to  the  voices  which  rose  and  fell 
behind  Anne. 

Then  a  silence  was  flung  like  a  stone  into  the 
murmur. 

Anne  looked  round. 

"I  refuse  to  be  dictated  to,"  her  mother  was  saying. 
Then  came  the  pause. 

Anne  had  an  impression  that  the  room  was  a  cage, 
with  its  mahogany  furniture,  its  red  and  blue  Turkey 
carpet,  its  leather-covered  chairs,  its  bright  fire,  its 
queer  fat  books  with  pale  buff,  black,  and  red  leather 
backs,  stamped  in  gold  with  dull-looking  names  which 
Anne  could  not  read  from  where  she  stood.  On  an 
upper  shelf  were  japanned  boxes  with  curious  legends 
in  white  across  their  sides:  "Ferrier  Estate,"  "Jam.es 
Browne,  Esq.,"  "Mrs.  M.  E.  Coxeter,"  and  so  on. 
The  most  romantic  sounding  of  those  within  the 
reach  of  Anne's  vision  was  lettered,  "Capt.  Archibald 
Wason,  1 2th  Lancers." 

Vaguely  she  wondered  who  all  these  people  might 
be  and  why  Mr.  Bentley  was  keeping  their  boxes 
for  them.  Perhaps  their  money  was  in  them.  She 
knew  that  Mr.  Cromwell  took  care  of  her  mother's. 
Perhaps  he  kept  it  in  a  black  box  labelled,  "Margaret 
Tudor!"     She  must  ask  her  when  they  got  home. 

"There  is  no  desire  to  dictate  on  the  part  of — my 


38  Driftincr  Waters 


^^ 


client,"  said  Mr.  Bentley,  so  suddenly  that  it  sounded 
as  if  he  had  rapped  a  ruler  on  the  table  in  the  way  that 
Miss  Carmichael  sometimes  did  when  she  wanted  to 
compel  Anne's  wandering  attention,  darting,  as  he 
did  so,  a  look  at  the  child  that  made  her  wheel  quickly 
round  to  her  former  post  of  observation. 

This  time  the  conversation  continued  in  tones  of 
such  calibre  that  Anne  could  not  choose  but  hear. 

" They  know  I'm  here,"  she  said  to  herself.  "They 
know  I  can  hear  every  word  they're  saying.  It's  not 
listening,  really." 

"He  has  forfeited  the  right  to  do  so.  The  law, 
just  for  once,  gave  my  child  to  me." 

"Perhaps  Nature  is  stronger  than  the  law,"  said 
Mr.  Bentley  slowly. 

"A  strange  sentiment  for  a  solicitor,"  Mrs.  Tudor 
flashed. 

"My  client,  having  come  in  for  the  fortune  which 
his  uncle  amassed  in  the  Matapos  Rubber  Company, 
is  simply  desirous  of  insuring  that  Miss  Tudor  shall 
be  permanently  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  want. 
You,  my  dear  Mrs.  Tudor " 

"I  have  enough  of  my  own.  How  could  I  touch 
a  penny?" 

"As  I  was  about  to  observe,  my  client  desires  to 
increase  his  present  allowance  of  £200  per  annum  to 
£500  per  annum  for  Miss  Tudor's  sole  and  exclusive 
use  when  she  comes  of  age.   The  £200  per  annum ' ' 

"  I  have  not  spent  sixpence  of  it,"  Mrs.  Tudor  inter- 
rupted hotly,  clenching  and  unclenching  her  hands 
beneath  her  cape. 

"I  assume  that  it  was  intended  for  Miss  Tudor's 
maintenance  and  education." 


The  Event  39 

"It  will  accumulate  until  she  is  twenty-one." 

' '  But  her  education  ? ' ' 

"That  is  my  affair.     Anne,  come  here." 

Anne  turned  from  the  window  and  stood  by  her 
mother's  side.  Mrs.  Tudor  took  her  hand.  Hers 
was  ungloved  and  burned  against  the  child's  cool 
palm.  A  red  spot  glowed  in  either  cheek,  usually  so 
pale.  Anne's  heart  began  to  beat  quickly.  She  did 
not  know  why.     The  atmosphere  seemed  to  tingle. 

"Anne,  will  you  recite  something  from  Racine  for 
Mr.  Bentley  ?  Anything  you  remember.  That  speech 
from  L' Andromaque  which  you  learned  for  M.  du 
Savenay  the  other  day." 

Anne  was  a  little  startled.  A  pulse  fluttered  at 
the  back  of  her  throat.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
recite  under  the  thrust  of  those  piercing  eyes. 

"Anne!"  There  was  a  ring  in  her  mother's  tone 
which  she  had  never  heard  before;  a  poignancy  of 
appeal  which  made  the  child  feel  that  she  must  not 
fail  her,  however  difficult  the  task  might  be. 

Fixing  her  eyes  on  the  box  of  "Capt.  Archibald 
Wason,  1 2th  Lancers,"  she  fortified  herself  with  the 
thought  of  the  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  and  began. 
At  first  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  then,  as  the  nobili- 
ity  of  the  verse  asserted  its  sway,  it  grew  clearer.  It 
was  a  pretty  performance,  each  cadenced  phrase 
musically  articulated.  Mrs.  Tudor  squeezed  her 
hand  feverishly  at  its  close. 

"Would  you  get  a  better  accent  than  that  in  any 
of  your  expensive  fashionable  schools?"  she  asked,  a 
hint  of  defiance  in  her  tones. 

Mr.  Bentley's  thin  lips  relaxed. 

"I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  French  tongue,  but 


40  Drifting  Waters 

it  seems  to  me  a  very  creditable  performance."  He 
waved  a  stiff  hand  towards  the  window.  "Miss 
Tudor,  will  you  kindly  continue  to  amuse  yourself.?  " 

Anne,  hating  him  for  calling  her  Miss  Tudor,  felt 
dismissed.  She  retreated  once  more  to  the  window, 
of  which  she  was  beginning  to  get  tired.  If  only  he 
would  have  allowed  her  to  stay  near  her  mother,  to 
stand,  as  she  felt  she  could  stand,  between  him  and 
her! 

The  view  from  the  window  had  ceased  to  interest 
her.  The  woman  on  the  Embankment  had  scattered 
her  last  crumb  and  gone.  The  eddying  cloud  of  sea- 
gulls had  dispersed,  as  smoke  disperses.  The  trams, 
like  huge  garish  beetles,  crawled  along  the  Embank- 
ment sluggishly. 

The  conversation  behind  her  grew  tense  once  more. 

"He  does  not  want  to  huy  her?"  she  heard  her 
mother  say  quickly. 

"On  the  contrary,"  Mr.  Bentley  returned.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  went  on.  "Perhaps  it 
would  remove  your  apprehensions,  Mrs.  Tudor,  if  I 
were  to  read  you  the  exact  words  of  my  client's  letter." 

There  was  the  sound  of  an  opening  drawer;  the 
crackle  of  unfolding  paper. 

"Let  me  see  it." 

"I  regret  that  I  cannot  do  that.  It  is  a  private 
letter.  I  will  read  you  what  he  says.  Here  is  the 
passage.  'I  wish  to  make  this  allowance,  which  I 
consider  quite  adequate,  in  order  to  rid  myself,  once 
for  all,  of  any  further  feeling  of  responsibility. '  That 
is  all  that  concerns  the  matter  in  hand,"  said  Mr. 
Bentley,  folding  the  letter  and  replacing  it  in  its 
envelope. 


The  Event  41 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Tudor  was  silent,  struggling 
with  some  emotion  which  mastered  her.  When  she 
spoke  her  breath  came  in  little  gasps,  as  if  she  had 
been  running  a  long  distance. 

"He  can't  disclaim  responsibility.  He  can't!  He 
can't!  He  is  as  responsible  as  I  am.  Oh,  callous! 
Cruel!" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Tudor,  be  reasonable." 

"I  know  everything  that  you  would  say.  But 
then  you're  a  legal  machine,  not  a  human  being. 
Human  beings  aren't  reasonable  at  times  like  this! 
I  suppose — I  suppose  he  is  thinking  of — thinking  of — 
some  new " 

"My  client  is  not  contemplating  remarriage,  as 
far  as  I  am  aware,  if  that  is  what  you  allude  to." 
The  words  fell  crisp  and  clear  as  ice. 

She  shivered  as  if  they  had  hurt  her. 

'  •  I— I—     Did  he— did  he  speak— of  me  ? " 

"He  did  not  mention  your  name,  Mrs.  Tudor." 

"Where  is  he?"     She  spoke  like  one  in  a  trance. 

"He  is  at  present  indulging  his  taste  for  travel  in 
Japan." 

"He  said  nothing  about  seeing  us — seeing  Anne,  I 
mean?" 

"Not  a  word.  In  a  former  letter  he  inquired  if 
you  had  married  again." 

Mrs.  Tudor  rose,  shrinking  back  against  the  chair. 

"Don't.  Oh,  don't,"  she  breathed,  putting  out 
her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.  "I  am  married — 
to  him.     Nothing  can  really  break  that — bond." 

"If  you  feel  like  that  may  I  ask  why ?" 

"The  bitter  years  have  taught  me  what  my  youth 
and  ignorance  did  not  know." 


42  Drifting  Waters 

"And  that  is?" 

"That  you  cannot  dissolve  the  indissoluble." 

"You  are  legally  and  honourably  free,  Mrs.  Tudor, 
to " 

"  I  shall  never  be  free,"  she  cried.  "  I  wish  to  God 
I  were!" 

"Then  this  additional  £300  per  annum?" 

"I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  it." 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  no  option,  my  dear  lady.  It 
is  intended  solely  and  exclusively  for  Miss  Tudor's 
use.  I  have  instructions  from  my  client  to  pay  the 
stun  quarterly  into  your  account  in  the  bank,  either  to 
be  used  by  you  for  her  benefit,  or  to  acctmiulate  as  you 
think  fit  until  she  comes  of  age." 

"He  uses  you  as  his  mental  sponge,  to  wipe  us  for 
ever  out  of  his  memory,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  bitterly. 

The  spots  in  her  cheeks  had  faded;  her  fires  had 
been  quenched  by  the  frosts  of  Mr.  Bentley.  The 
hand  she  held  out  to  Anne  was  cold  and  trembled. 

"Come,  my  Anne,"  she  said  with  forced  lightness. 
"We  must  not  take  up  any  more  of  Mr.  Bentley 's 
valuable  time.  Drop  him  your  prettiest  curtsey 
and  let's  be  going." 

Rather  self-consciously  Anne  obeyed.  She  dimly 
resented  the  feeling  that  she  was  being  made  to 
show  off  for  Mr.  Bentley's  benefit,  but  she  desired 
to  please  her  mother  more  than  anything  else  on 
earth. 

"  Ridicvilous,  hysterical  woman,"  thought  Mr. 
Bentley,  as  the  door  closed  behind  them.  "I  fancy 
that  he  is  enjoying  his  freedom  too  much  to  give  her 
a  second  thought,  and  I  cannot  say  that  I  altogether 
blame  him." 


The  Event  43 

He  gave  a  thin  chuckle;  then  turned  to  his  work 
and  dismissed  the  incident  from  his  mind. 


IV 


The  return  journey  was  devoid  of  joy.  The  han- 
som which  Anne  hailed  smelt  of  insecticide ;  the  driver 
had  a  cross,  red  face,  and  the  horse,  instead  of  cara- 
coling gaily  as  the  former  animal  had  done,  progressed 
in  a  series  of  jumps  which  brought  him  back  every 
time  almost  to  his  original  starting-point;  a  process 
which  necessarily  made  advance  somewhat  slow, 
although  it  induced  a  false  impression  of  high  spirit 
on  the  part  of  the  steed. 

Mrs.  Tudor  leaned  back  against  the  buff  cushions 
of  the  cab,  staring  in  front  of  her  with  eyes  that  saw 
nothing.  The  air  grew  colder  as  the  sun  disappeared 
in  an  orange  blur  behind  the  houses.  Buildings 
loomed  grey  and  chilly;  the  foot-bridge  stretched 
across  the  river,  stiflEiy  black,  to  a  Lambeth  Palace 
that  was  grim  as  the  Tower.  The  pigeons  perched 
in  dark  niches;  the  children  in  the  streets  quarrelled 
shrilly. 

One  question  and  one  only  possessed  Anne's  mind 
and  cried  so  insistently  for  utterance  that  her  tightly- 
closed  lips  could  scarcely  keep  it  back.  She  wondered 
that  her  mother  did  not  hear  it  calling,  calling  in  her 
brain. 

The  rigid  restraint  of  Mrs.  Tudor' s  attitude  added 
to  her  sense  of  chill  depression,  a  sense  which  was 
overwhelmed  in  a  flood  of  misery  when  the  child  saw 
that  tears  were  streaming  silently  down  her  mother's 
cheeks,  tears  which  she  did  not  make  the  least  effort 


44  Drifting  Waters 

either  to  check  or  to  wipe  away.  There  was  some- 
thing dreadful  to  Anne  in  that. 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  and  the  question 
rushed  out,  voiced  instantly  and  against  her  will : 

"Mother,  who  wants  to  give  me  that  money?" 

"Your  father,"  answered  Mrs.  Tudor  in  dead  tones, 
her  hand  lying  listless  in  her  lap. 

"My  father?"  Anne  echoed,  her  brain  in  a  whirl. 
Yet  at  the  back  of  her  mind  she  felt  that  she  had 
known  it  all  along. 

"But  I  thought  he  was  dead." 

"He  is  dead  to  us,  Anne." 

"Then — then — what  sort  of  a  widow  are  you 
mother?" 

"Who  told  you  that  I  was  a  widow?" 

"Sabina  said  you  were,  in  a  manner  of  speaking," 
Anne  quoted  imcomfortably. 

"Poor  Sabina  and  her  tact!"  sighed  Mrs.  Tudor. 
"God  knows  I  am  more  truly  widowed  than  many 
whose  husbands  are  under  the  sod.  You  may  as 
well  know  the  truth.  I  shall  explain  it  more  fully  to 
you  when  you  are  older  and  better  able  to  understand. 
Yotu"  father  and  I  are  separated,  Anne,  separated  by  the 
law.     Oiu:  lives  will  never  touch  again.     Never  again ! '  * 

"Mother!"  cried  Anne  passionately.  "Are  you 
sorry?" 

"It's  too  late  to  be  sorry,  my  Anne.  Too  late! 
Too  late!"  she  repeated  dully.  "Don't  the  words 
sound  like  a  death-knell,  child?  The  death-knell  of 
hope.     Foolish,  foolish  hope!" 

Anne,  terrified  by  the  look  on  her  mother's  face, 
pulled  her  little  handkerchief  out  of  her  muff  and 
began  to  wipe  away  the  unheeded  tears. 


The  Event  45 

"Let  me  dry  your  eyes,  darling,"  she  whispered, 
eager  to  divert  her. 

"Was  I  crying?"  said  Mrs.  Tudor.  "I  didn't 
know.  I  thought  all  my  tears  had  dried  up  long 
ago.     You  are  a  good  child,  Anne." 

"There's  nothing  good  in  taking  care  of  you,"  said 
Anne  fiercely. 

"It's  I  who  should  take  care  of  you,  Anne." 

"So  you  do."  Then  after  a  pause,  during  which 
the  cream-coloured  houses  of  Caroline  Place  drew  in 
sight,  Anne,  blurted  out:  "Mother,  was  he — was  my 
father  unkind  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Tudor's  eyes  still  looked  towards  that  unseen 
distance  as  she  answered: 

"Yes.  But  don't  let's  speak  of  it,  Anne,  I  feel 
that  I  have  borne  enough  today." 

" I'll  never  speak  of  it  till  you  do,"  said  Anne,  "but 
oh,  I  shall  hate  him  for  it  as  long  as  I  live!" 

The  horse  leaped  for  the  last  time  into  the  air  and 
came  to  a  standstill  in  front  of  No.  i.  The  jerk  with 
which  the  cab  stopped  shook  Mrs.  Tudor  from  the 
physical  apathy  as  the  unchildlike  intensity  of  Anne's 
words  roused  her  mentally.  It  gave  her  a  shock  to 
see  hate  afire  in  her  child's  eyes  for  the  first  time. 
She  put  out  her  hand. 

"No,  Anne.  You  mustn't.  You  mustn't  hate 
anybody.  You  must  never  hate  anybody,  my  littlest. 
It  hurts." 

"I  never  hated  anybody  before,"  murmured  Anne, 
as  she  followed  her  mother  into  the  house. 

Upstairs  she  waited  upon  her  as  usual,  deftly, 
silently.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  shoes,  folded  and 
put  away  veil  and  cape,  pinned  the  violets  into  the 


46  Drifting  Waters 

folds  of  her  bodice,  shook  out  the  shawl  of  crimson 
cr6pe,  and  put  it  softly  round  her  shoulders. 

The  cheery  crackling  of  a  wood  fire  and  the  scent 
of  more  violets  greeted  them  in  the  sitting-room, 
where  a  blue  flame  spurted  under  the  silver  tea-kettle. 
Sabina  rose  from  the  fireside,  where  she  had  just  left 
a  covered  dish  inside  the  fender. 

With  a  hasty  glance  at  Mrs.  Tudor's  face  she  began 
without  preamble: 

"Ponsonby  have  done  nothing  but  screech  since 
you  went  out,  ma'am.  'Twas  as  lonely  as  the  crows 
he  was  without  you,  for  he  never  stopped  letting 
yells  out  of  him  until  the  minute  he  heard  the  cab 
stop  at  the  door." 

"Really,  Sabina?     Poor  old  Ponsonby!" 

The  bird  put  down  his  head  self-consciously,  flat- 
tened his  yellow  crest  and  scratched  his  neck  medi- 
tatively with  one  claw,  murmuring  in  a  guttural 
undertone  the  while,  as  who  should  say : 

"Why  believe  servants*  tales?  Do  I  look  as  if  I 
had  been  behaving  so  outrageously?" 

"'Twas  the  way  I  was  frightened  that  someone 
would  think  I  was  killing  yourself  or  Miss  Anne," 
Sabina  continued.  "Look  at  him  now,  laughing  to 
himself  at  me.  That  one  is  like  a  Christian  itself, 
he  is  so!" 

"Give  him  to  me,  Anne."  Mrs.  Tudor  sank  into 
her  carved  chair  with  a  little  sigh  and  held  out  her 
hand  for  the  bird. 

As  Anne  unhooked  him  he  playfully  tweaked  the 
black  plait  nearest  to  him.  She  rubbed  her  cheek 
against  his  breast. 

"Bad  old  bird.     The  mem-sahib  will  scold  you." 


The  Event  47 

Ponsonby  sidled  along  Mrs.  Tudor's  shoulder  until 
he  was  quite  close  to  her  ear,  into  which  he  poured  a 
flood  of  incoherent  chatter,  interspersed  with  occa- 
sional chuckles,  and  choice  oaths  in  Hindustani. 

But  neither  Ponsonby 's  ribaldries  nor  even  the 
beautiful  muffins  which  Sabina  had  bought  from  Mr. 
Albert  Nutkin  sufficed  to  erase  from  Anne's  mind  the 
memory  of  her  first  glimpse  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge 
of  Good  and  Evil,  in  the  shadow  of  whose  boughs  she 
had  seen  the  spectres  of  sorrow  and  wrong,  even  the 
very  trail  of  the  serpent  itself. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  EPOCH 


WHEN  Anne  was  little,  Sabina  used  sometimes  to 
amuse  and  bewilder  her  by  telling  her  what 
she  called  "The  Unpossible  Story."  It  was  a  tale 
akin  to  that  of  the  Great  Panjandrum  Himself,  and, 
like  that  immortal  anecdote,  bore  little  semblance  of 
sense. 

It  related  the  adventures  of  one  Curly  Twomey, 
who  unfortunately  "broke  the  lip  of  his  liver  against 
a  pawnbroker's  wig,"  of  which  ailment  he  was  cured 
by  a  draught  composed  of  "keerogues"  (blackbeetles) 
"kidneys,  frog's  buttermilk,  and  thrushes'  ankles." 
After  this  he  set  to  work  to  make  ' '  straw  hats  out  of 
old  deal  boards  and  to  thresh  peas  into  tobacco; 
when  one  pea  shot  through  a  stone  wall  and  killed 
a  dead  dog  on  the  other  side  that  was  barking  at  a 
pock-marked  cat.  There  he  saw  a  live  lion  stuffed 
with  straw,  eating  boiled  potatoes  raw,"  whereupon 
he  jumped  over  "an  iron  gate  that  was  made  of 
butter,  as  high  as  an  angry  cabbage-stump  and  as 
long  as  from  Patrick's  Day  to  America.  Then  he 
stumbled  over  his  own  shin-bone  and  fell  into  the  river, 
where  he  was  burnt  to  death  in  a  blaze  of  cold  water ! " 

48 


The  Epoch  49 

For  a  time  the  revelations  of  that  winter  day 
seemed  to  have  shaken  the  normaUties  of  Anne's  Hfe 
into  a  bewilderment  akin  to  that  produced  by  the 
Odyssey  of  Curly  Twomey. 

The  knowledge  of  her  father's  existence,  of  her 
mother's  unhappiness,  of  the  ugly  existence  of  Evil 
in  her  innocent  child's  Paradise  confused  and  broke 
the  symmetry  of  her  hours.  Then,  little  by  little, 
routine  smoothed  the  days  to  their  former  suavity, 
and  Anne  hid  away  her  newly-acquired  knowledge 
in  that  corner  of  her  mind  where  she  kept  all  com- 
plexities. Only  in  secret  moments  did  she  take  it  out 
to  look  at  and  wonder  over. 

Her  education  pursued  its  even  course,  alternating 
with  erratic  periods  of  study  which  her  mother  im- 
posed upon  her.  Mrs.  Tudor  was  subject  to  moods 
of  almost  feverish  absorption  in  some  new,  and  for 
the  time,  all-engrossing  subject.  Assyrian  architec- 
ture, Roman  intaglios,  Records  of  Historic  Crimes, 
the  art  of  Hokusai,  each  had  its  turn.  When  she  had 
studied  each  subject  avidly  for  a  certain  time  her 
interest  flagged,  drooped,  and  died,  and  the  very  men- 
tion of  Roman  intaglios  or  Japanese  art  bored  her; 
but  while  the  interest  lasted  Anne  had  to  read  too,  to 
keep  apace.  Her  mind  held  an  odd  jumble  of  facts 
and  fancies.  It  was  like  a  crowded  tapestry  of  no 
particular  period,  shot  with  colours  of  an  impossible 
splendour  by  the  fervour  of  her  own  imagination. 
Romances,  history,  poetry,  she  devoured  eagerly, 
and  her  outlook  on  life  bore  but  little  resemblance 
to  reality. 

So  the  years  sped  on.  Every  day  her  black  silken 
plaits  and  black  silken  legs  seemed  to  grow  longer, 

4 


50  Drifting  Waters 

while  her  small,  irregular  face  began  to  show  the  soft 
curves  of  girlhood. 

Anne  was  growing  up. 

Sabina  realized  it,  and  saw  to  the  lengthening  of 
her  skirts  and  the  proper  sobriety  of  her  demeanour 
when  they  took  their  walks  abroad. 

"None  of  your  laughing  and  skitting  now,  Miss 
Anne.  You're  getting  too  big  for  them  kind  of 
antics." 

Too  big !  Hateful  phrase,  checking  the  exuberance 
of  youth,  yet  paradoxically  opening  the  chink  of  a 
magic  casement  upon  unknown  joys.  Binding  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  setting  free.  Anne's  life 
at  that  time  was  full  of  possible  magic  casements, 
paradoxes,  and  contradictions. 

Miss  Carmichael  realized  it. 

With  a  blue  silk  scarf  carelessly  thrown  over  one 
shoulder  (in  a  manner  which  she  secretly  considered 
rather  daring)  she  took  Anne  as  often  as  she  could  to 
the  various  galleries  and  museums,  whose  treasures 
jewel  London.  She  took  her  to  concerts  at  the  Albert 
Hall  and  at  Queen's  Hall.  She  even  took  her  to  see 
a  Shakespeare  production  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre, 
and — venturing  further — Martin  Harvey  in  The  Only 
Way. 

"Shakespeare  and  Dickens,"  she  murmured  half 
apologetically  to  Anne.  "Of  course  I  should  not 
dream  of  taking  you  to  anything  more  frivolous." 

It  was  all  transmuted  to  gold  in  the  alchemy  of 
Anne's  vivid  young  mind.  She  loved  Miss  Carmichael , 
she  loved  the  theatres,  she  loved  the  statues  and 
pictures,  and  carvings  and  bronzes.  She  loved  every- 
thing and  everyone  in  her  queer  little  world  except 


The  Epoch  51 

the  one  person  for  whom  her  heart  held  a  burning 
spark  of  resentment.  He  had  hurt  her  mother. 
That  hurt  her  and  fired  her  anger.  She  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  one  day  he  would  hurt  her  personally  too. 
That  set  a  chilly  fear  beside  the  place  that  burned, 
and  reminded  her  again  of  the  "Unpossible  Story." 

M.  du  Savenay  realized  it. 

He  talked  more  frequently  to  the  girl,  tried  to  draw 
her  out,  to  make  her  crystallize  her  wandering  thoughts 
into  words.  Sometimes  his  eyes  dwelt  on  mother 
and  daughter  with  a  pity,  a  tenderness,  a  wonder, 
that  spoke  of  an  emotion  inevitably  restrained  for 
the  present,  yearningly  protective  for  the  future. 

In  the  long-ago  days  when  Mrs.  Tudor  had  first 
sought  refuge  from  her  troubles  (which,  centred  in 
herself,  no  flight  could  ever  evade)  in  Mrs.  Chalfont- 
Smythe's  comfortable  and  refined  home,  she  had 
made  instant  and  irrevocable  appeal  to  the  heart  of 
the  elderly  Frenchman.  The  forlorn  pathos  of  her 
circumstances,  her  broken  beauty,  the  touching  figure 
of  her  little  black-haired  child,  sowed  the  seeds  of  a 
romance  which  only  deepened  as  each  year  went  by 
to  join  its  fellow. 

Mrs.  Tudor  knew  all  about  it.  What  woman  needs 
to  be  told  when  a  man  loves  her,  unless  she  has  loved 
him  first?  That  the  knowledge  gilded  her  life  a  little 
she  scarcely  admitted  even  to  herself.  The  impos- 
sibility of  any  fruition  set  the  romance  in  a  starry 
girdle  within  the  safety  of  the  spheres.  Her  passion- 
wrought  heart  and  his  religion,  which  does  not  re- 
cognize divorce,  set  seal  upon  any  likelihood  of  an 
urgency  which  might  have  put  an  end  to  their  pleasant 
relationship.     Time  had  blunted  the  sting  of  M.  du 


52  Drifting  Waters 

Savenay's  desire  and  rounded  the  edges  of  his  passion. 
What  remained  was  something  essentially  undisturb- 
ing,  very  real,  a  little  wistful,  and  altogether  selfless 
on  the  man's  part  now.  Any  change  would  have 
spoilt  a  beautiful  thing  for  both. 

Her  mother  alone  seemed  blind  to  Anne's  growth, 
or  rather  she  accepted  it  without  notice  or  comment 
as  one  accepts  day  and  night. 

Sabina  tried  to  enlighten  her. 

"Miss  Anne  is  getting  a  big  girl  now,  ma'am,"  she 
said  one  day. 

"She  is,  indeed,  Sabina.  I  think  she  will  be  tall." 
Mrs.  Tudor  looked  up  from  the  frame  whereon  she 
wove  many  hours  of  lagging  time  into  filet  lace  for  a 
frock  for  Anne. 

"'Tis  growing  up  on  us  she  is,  ma'am." 

"Nonsense,  Sabina,  she's  only  a  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor  with  a  little  smile. 

"Miss  Anne  is  sixteen,  going  on  for  seventeen. 
That's  no  child,  ma'am.  'Tis  growing  up  on  us  she 
is,"  Sabina  repeated,  as  if  it  were  a  fact  worthy  of 
emphasis. 

Mrs.  Tudor  looked  up  from  her  work  again,  a  little 
ruffled  at  Sabina's  persistence. 

"Sabina,  why  do  you  wish  to  rub  in  the  fact  that 
I  have  lost  my  baby?" 

"You  lost  your  baby  long  and  merry  ago,  ma'am. 
'Tis  many  a  day  since  Miss  Anne  was  a  baby.  She 
was  always  old-fashioned  in  her  ways,  and  indeed  it 
would  be  queer  if  she  wasn't,  seeing  that  she  was  for- 
ever with  them  that  was  older  than  herself." 

"Is  this  an  indictment,  Sabina?"  asked  Mrs.  Tudor 
with  raised  brows,  as  she  had  once  asked  Anne  long  ago. 


The  Epoch  53 

"I  don't  know  none  of  them  dixenary  words, 
ma'am,"  said  Sabina  stoutly,  "but  I  do  know  this, 
that  it's  the  queer  life  entirely  Miss  Anne  has  for  a 
growing  slip  of  a  girl,  with  ne'er  a  one  to  speak  to 
except  meself,  that's  as  old  as  a  man,  Miss  Carmichael, 
a  nice  harmless  lady  enough,  but  no  chicken,  and  yer- 
self  that,  saving  your  presence  and  not  wishing  to  be 
obnoxious,  is  not  as  young  as  you  used  to  be.  'Tis 
the  bit  of  play  she  wants,  the  creature!" 

"Has  she  complained  to  you,  Sabina?" 

"Is  it  Miss  Anne?  Not  likely,  ma'am.  But  sure 
I  know  what  young  things  is,  young  girls  especially." 

"Sabina,  you're  an  alarmist.  I  tell  you  she's  only 
a  child.     She  is  quite  content." 

"She  won't  be  long  so,  ma'am.  Cast  back  in  your 
own  mind  and  see  how  much  of  a  child  you  were 
yourself  at  seventeen." 

The  shaft  struck  home.  There  was  a  long  silence, 
during  which  Mrs.  Tudor 's  face  flushed  slowly  with  a 
deep  and  painful  red. 

Sabina  saw  her  advantage  and  ruthlessly  pushed  it 
farther. 

"That  lanky  fella  at  No.  2 " 

"Do  you  mean  Dr.  Waldron?" 

"The  very  same.  He's  always  looking  up  at  the 
window  when  he  passes  now,  and  whenever  we  chance 
to  meet  him  out  he  leps  off  his  bicycle  to  give  us  the 
time  of  day.     'Tisn't  for  me  he  does  it." 

"  What  does  he  say  ? " 

"Oh,  nothing  much,  but  'How  does  the  world  wag 
with  you,  Sabina?'  very  polite  and  interested  by  the 
way,  and  a  little  joke  now  and  then  about  Miss  Anne's 
Christmas  roses." 


54  Drifting  Waters 

"Miss  Anne's  Christmas  roses!"  echoed  Mrs. 
Tudor.     This  was  a  revelation. 

"The  roses  in  her  cheeks,  ma'am,  he  means." 

"Impertinent!     Tell  me  exactly  what  he  says." 

Sabina  seemed  to  enjoy  her  mistress's  agitation. 

"He  wants  to  turn  them  into  Jime  ones,  he  says, 
meaning  her  skin  is  so  white,  ma'am." 

"How  does  Anne  take  it?" 

"She  just  crinkles  up  her  eyes  and  laughs  at  him, 
ma'am." 

"She  likes  that  sort  of  thing?"  breathed  Mrs. 
Tudor  with  tragic  incredulity. 

"Why  wouldn't  she,  ma'am?"  retorted  Sabina 
stolidly.  "Sure  'tis  only  nature  for  boys  and  girls 
to  like  to  be  together  and  have  their  bit  of  joke." 

"Dr.  Waldron  is  not  a  boy." 

"He  is  not,  ma'am." 

"Sabina,  are  you  trying  to  tell  me  that  you  think 
he's  in  love  with  Anne?" 

"I  am  not,  ma'am,  but  I  think  he's  beginning  to 
have  a  'wish'  for  her." 

"Absurd!    Preposterous!   Incredible!  That  baby!" 

"No  girl  going  on  for  seventeen  is  a  baby,  and  no 
one  should  know  that  better  than  yourself,  Miss 
Margaret."  The  slipping  out  of  the  old  name  seemed 
to  give  an  added  point  to  Sabina's  words. 

Mrs.  Tudor  pushed  her  frame  away  fretfully.  A 
deep  wrinkle  showed  between  her  brows. 

"I  was  mature  for  my  age.  Anne  is  not.  I  have 
guarded  her  carefully,  kept  her  from  everything  that 
might  hurt  her.  She  really  is  a  child,  an  innocent, 
innocent  child.  You  have  disturbed  me  very  much, 
Sabina,  with  your  croakings.     I  think  you  are  ridicu- 


The  Epoch  55 

lous,  but  all  the  same  you  have  shattered  my  sense  of 
security." 

"I  meant  to,  Miss  Margaret,  ma'am.  Sure  the 
most  innocent  children  has  to  grow  up  whether  they 
like  it  or  not.  No  matter  how  carefully  you  may 
guard  them,  when  they  go  out  into  the  world  (as  they 
must  do,  soon  or  syne)  they'll  find  the  stones  and 
the  briers  for  theirselves.  Then  maybe  they'll  turn 
round  on  you  and  be  sayin',  'Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
about  them  stones  and  them  briers,  the  way  I'd  be 
knowing  how  to  avoid  'em?'  " 

"There  need  be  no  stones  or  briers  for  Anne,"  said 
Mrs.  Tudor  hastily.  Her  voice  rang  with  a  pathetic 
effort  at  self-confidence — a  wavering  belief  in  the 
efficacy  of  her  favourite  muffling  policy,  across  which 
Sabina's  next  words  cut  sharply,  stripping  her  of  its 
thin  protection. 

"Lord  love  your  ignorance,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  with 
unconcealed  impatience.  "Sure  they're  there  for 
all  of  us,  quality  and  commonality  alike.  There's 
sorrow  and  there's  suffering  in  the  softest  places  of 
the  world,  aye,  and  sin  too.  No  use  shutting  your 
eyes  to  it  either  and  pretending  it  isn't  there.  Sure 
there  was  never  a  more  sheltered  place  than  the 
Garden  of  Eden  itself,  and  look  what  happened  there ! " 

"I  think  it  is  very  unkind  of  you  to  try  to  frighten 
me  like  this.  I  cannot  imagine  where  you  imbibed  all 
these  dreadful  modern  ideas." 

Sabina  pursued  her  dogged  way. 

"Because  you  choose  to  live  in  a  glass  cage  your- 
self, Miss  Margaret,  is  no  reason  why  you  should  try 
to  keep  the  child  there  too.  She'll  find  a  way  out 
some  day  when  you're  not  looking,  and  who  knows 


56  Drifting  Waters 

what  path  she'll  be  running  down  in  her  ignorance?" 

"Anne  is  wy  child.     I  can  trust  her." 

Sabina  made  a  sound  that  was  half -sigh,  half-grunt, 
and  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  then  shut  them 
again. 

Mrs.  Tudor  ran  her  needle  in  and  out  of  the  net 
absently.  Her  wilful  blindness,  her  foolish  confidence, 
tangled  the  older  woman's  thoughts  as  in  a  net.  Her 
mind  tripped  and  stumbled.  She  was  not  used  to 
self-expression.  She  caught  at  a  half-apprehended 
warning  to  steady  herself.  It  felt  sharp  even  to  her 
hard  palm.  She  hesitated  to  use  it,  lest  it  should 
hurt  this  woman  whom  she  loved  so  dearly  and  had 
served  so  well.  Yet  it  seemed  to  have  been  thrust 
into  her  hand  for  use.  The  moment  might  not  come 
again.     She  hesitated  no  longer. 

"She's  not  your  child  only,  ma'am,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  nervously  pleating  her  apron  into  folds 
and  darting  unhappy  glances  to  note  the  effect  of  her 
words.  "What  would  you  do  if — if  you  found  a — a 
dark  streak  in  her  that — that  didn't  come  from  you? " 

A  tremor  passed  over  Mrs.  Tudor,  and  left  her  stiff 
as  if  frozen  in  the  black  carved  chair. 

"A  dark  streak!"  she  repeated  with  lips  grown 
suddenly  stiff  and  cold.  "  The  wild  Tudors !  I  never 
thought  of  that." 

For  a  moment  she  sat,  staring  into  the  fire  and 
moving  her  lips  silently.  Sabina,  frightened,  pleated 
her  apron  until  the  whole  square  lay  between  her 
fingers  like  a  closed  fan.  Then  her  mistress's  frigidity 
broke  and  melted  pitifully.  She  caught  Sabina's 
arm  and  shook  it  until  the  apron-end  fell  out  of  her 
hand,  its  pleats  springing  apart  with  odd  effect. 


The  Epoch  57 

"Oh,  Sabina,  Sabina,"  she  cried,  her  working  face 
intensifying  with  mute  appeal  the  craving  of  her 
words.  "You  haven't  noticed  a  dark  streak  in  Anne? 
You  haven't?     Tell  me  you  haven't?" 

"I  have  not,"  Sabina  answered,  giving  the  clutch- 
ing fingers  a  rough  pat.  "I  have  not,  but  it  may  be 
there  unbeknownst  to  you  or  me." 

' '  Horrible !  Horrible ! ' '  she  muttered.  ' '  My  Anne. 
My  little  Anne.  What  have  I  ever  done  to  you, 
Sabina,  that  you  should  be  so  cruel  to  me?" 

"  'Tisn't  cruelty,  Miss  Margaret." 

Mrs.  Tudor  turned  her  head  away,  biting  her  lip 
to  still  its  trembling.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  look  at  Sabina,  the  revealer  of  things  un- 
dreamed of,  the  shatterer  of  her  hard-won  peace. 
She  took  up  her  frame  again,  then  thrusting  it  im- 
patiently from  her  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
room.  The  frame  slipped,  hung  for  an  instant  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  and  fell  with  a  little  clatter  to  the  floor. 
Mrs.  Tudor  winced,  as  if  the  slight  sound  hurt  her. 

"I  shall  never  know  an  easy  moment  now,"  she 
muttered  disjointedly.  "Never.  Never.  In  every 
word,  every  action  of  that  innocent  child's  I  shall 
suspect  a  Tudor  strain.  I  shall  always,  always  be  on 
the  watch  for  that  dark  streak.  Oh,  Sabina,  how 
could  you  ?     How  could  you  ? ' ' 

Sabina  stood  uncomfortably  still  for  an  instant. 
She  felt  drained  of  speech  after  her  unwonted  outburst. 
Then  she  moved  slowly  towards  the  door,  upheld  by 
the  dogged  sense  of  having  done  her  duty  in  the  face 
of  difficulties.  She  hesitated  with  her  hand  on  the 
handle,  and  turned  to  offer  salve  for  the  wound  which 
she  had  made. 


58  Drifting  Waters 

"Sure  'twas  only  a  bit  wild  they  was,  after  all, 
ma'am.     Even  the  Captain  himself " 

"Don't!"  cried  Mrs.  Tudor,  on  so  high  a  note  that 
it  sounded  almost  like  a  scream. 

Sabina  slipped  out,  shutting  the  door  quickly  behind 
her.  She  had  trodden  unexpected  paths  since  she 
had  opened  it. 

A  moment  later  Anne  came  in,  a  tall  slip  of  girlhood, 
fresh  from  the  outer  air. 

Mrs.  Tudor's  eyes  devoured  her  hungrily  as  she 
came  up  to  her  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her  mother's 
face — her  usual  greeting. 

"Oh,  mother,  we  had  such  a  lovely  walk.  Miss 
Carmichael  took  me  to  Battersea  Park.  There  is  a 
mist  of  green  on  all  the  bushes,  and  the  flowers  are 
beautiful.  Such  da£Eodils!  You  must  come  there 
with  me  one  day." 

Mrs.  Tudor  strained  the  girl  closely  to  her,  then 
put  her  away  and  looked  again  devouringly  at  the 
little  irregular  face. 

"Yes.  Yes.  You  must  take  me  there  some  day. 
.  .  .  Anne,  tell  me.     Have  I  spoiled  your  youth?" 

Anne  gave  a  little  surprised  laugh. 

"You,  dearest?"  she  cried.  "How  could  you 
possibly  have  spoiled  my  youth  ?  Am  I  not  as  happy 
as  the  days  are  long?" 

"Are  you,  Anne?  Are  you  really?  Is  that  the 
truth?" 

"Mother!" 

The  honest  incredulity  in  the  girl's  tone  soothed 
Mrs.  Tudor's  rasped  nerves. 

"Yes,  my  Anne,  I  know.  I  know.  But  tell  me," 
she  urged,  stroking  back  the  little  tendrils  of  hair  on 


The  Epoch  59 

Anne's  forehead — "tell  me,  dearest,  do  you  ever 
miss  companions  of  your  own  age?" 

"I  never  had  any,  so  how  can  I  tell?"  said  Anne 
frankly.  "What  has  put  this  silly  idea  into  your 
head?  You  look  quite  worried  over  it.  I  hate  to 
see  you  looking  worried." 

"Sabina  has  been  scolding  me.  She  says  that  you 
should  see  more  of  the  world;  that  you  should  have 
young  companions,  that  she  and  I  are  too  old  for 
you." 

"Sabina  is  an  interfering  old  weasel ! "  cried  Anne. 

"Anne,  where  did  you  learn  such  an  expression!" 
said  her  mother,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  so  great 
was  her  relief  in  the  candour  of  Anne's  gaze.  Surely, 
surely  there  was  no  dark  streak  in  the  crystal  purity 
of  her  child's  soul. 

"I  learnt  it  from  Mrs.  Nutkin,"  Anne  admitted. 
"She  has  a  lovely  vocabulary.  She's  far  more  amus- 
ing than  any  young  companion.  Don't  worry  your 
dear  head  about  such  folly.  I  assure  you,  solemnly, 
that  I  don't  miss  anything  I  haven't  got." 

"Sure,  my  littlest?" 

"As  sure  as  from  Patrick's  Day  to  America,"  re- 
turned Anne,  trying  to  restore  the  tone  to  the  normal 
again. 

Infrequent  as  they  were,  there  was  always  some- 
thing disquieting  in  these  outbursts  of  her  mother's. 
In  the  extravagance  of  Anne's  young  imagination 
she  visioned  a  volcano  smouldering  beneath  a  snow- 
field  ;  and  exciting,  even  thrilling  as  an  eruption  might 
be,  there  was  an  agitation  almost  amounting  to  a 
menace  in  these  lava-torrents  of  unwonted  words 
flowing  across  the  white  calmness  of  her  normal  life. 


6o  Drifting  Waters 

Moving  away  from  her  mother  Anne's  foot  struck 
against  the  fallen  frame  with  its  spider-web  of  un- 
finished lace.     She  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

"Why  aren't  you  soothing  your  soul  with  filet  lace 
for  my  bestest  summer  frock,  instead  of  imagining 
all  sorts  of  nonsense  ?  It  will  never  be  ready  in  time, 
lazy  person." 

She  coaxed  Mrs.  Tudor  back  to  her  seat  and  slipped 
a  stool  under  her  feet.  "There!  Now  you're  comfy 
and  in  your  right  place  again.  Here's  Ponsonby  to 
swear  at  Sabina  for  you." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  when  you  were  out?"  asked 
Mrs.  Tudor  with  assimied  carelessness,  as  the  bird 
rubbed  his  head  against  her  ear,  chuckling  and 
gurgling  in  a  grumbling  monotone. 

"No.  Only  the  proletariat,  as  you  so  patricianly 
call  the  happy,  dirty  children  and  the  people  one  sees 
in  Battersea  Park.  Yes,  though.  I  saw  Dr.  Waldron 
just  as  I  was  coming  in." 

"Oh,  you  saw  Dr.  Waldron.     Where?" 

Anne  nodded  towards  the  street.  "There.  He 
bicycled  up  just  as  I  was  passing  their  house.  Mrs. 
Waldron  was  peeping  through  the  lace  curtains  as 
usual.  I  waved  my  hand  to  her,  but  she  took  no 
notice.  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  I  wasn't  supposed 
to  see  her!" 

"Did  the  doctor  take  any  notice  of  you?" 

"Of  course,  mother.  He  couldn't  very  well  do 
anything  else,  as  we  came  face  to  face." 

"He's  a  well-meaning  person,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor 
loftily. 

"He  has  always  been  very  nice  to  me,"  said  Anne, 
unwinding  the  scarf  from  her  neck  and  disclosing  a 


The  Epoch  6i 

little  spray  of  lilies-of-the-valley,  sheathed  in  pale 
green  leaves.  "He  gave  me  these.  He  said  that  a 
grateful  patient  had  given  them  to  him,  but  they  were 
too  smart  for  him." 

"A  patient!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tudor,  disgust  in  her 
tone  and  a  little  pang  at  her  heart.  "I  hope  they've 
been  disinfected." 

"They're  delicious,"  cried  Anne,  sniffing  at  them. 
"See,  mother,  it's  only  a  little  market  spray  and 
perfectly  fresh." 

Mrs.  Tudor  took  the  bunch  with  reluctant  fingers, 
regarded  it  for  a  moment  as  if  it  were  a  toad,  then 
dropped  it  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"Forgive  me,  Anne,"  she  said  with  forced  lightness, 
"but  I  have  a  morbid  horror  of  microbes,  I  dread 
infection  so  much  for  you,  child.  You  don't  mind, 
do  you?" 

Anne's  face  looked  blank  for  an  instant. 

"Of  course  not,  if  you're  really  afraid,  mother." 
Her  eyes  ruefully  watched  the  blackening  of  the 
bells  that  had  been  so  delicately  white  a  moment 
ago. 

Mrs.  Tudor's  conscience  pricked  her  slightly. 

She  was  well  aware  that  it  was  not  fear  of  microbes 
which  had  made  her  burn  the  lilies,  but  a  more  intim- 
ate, jealous  dread. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  have  burned  the  sweet  fresh 
things,"  Anne  continued  in  a  tone  faintly  tinged  with 
disappointment. 

No  one  had  ever  given  her  flowers  before.  The 
offerings  of  M.  du  Savenay  had  always  been  laid  at 
her  mother's  shrine. 

"I'll  buy  you  dozens  to  make  up,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor. 


62  Drifting  Waters 

"I  don't  really  want  them,  mother." 

"There  surely  is  no  romantic  halo  round  Dr.  Wal- 
dron's  lilies,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  a  little  sharply. 

"Of  course  not,  but " 

"There  could  not  possibly  be  much  romance  about 
a  person  whose  intercourse  with  one  is  limited  to 
feeling  your  pulse  and  looking  at  your  tongue,"  in- 
sisted Mrs.  Tudor. 

"He  hasn't  done  that  for  a  long  time  now,"  said 
Anne,  putting  hers  out  till  she  could  just  see  its  red 
curling  tip.  "It's  my  face  he  generally  looks  at, 
and  he  always  makes  the  same  joke  about  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"He  asks  me  why  I  don't  grow  June  roses  instead 
of  Christmas  ones,"  Anne  replied. 

"Harmless,  but  not  very  brilliant,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Tudor,  taking  up  her  frame  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Oh,  well,  one  doesn't  want  ordinary  people  to  be 
brilliant." 

"And  Dr.  Waldron  is  certainly  a  very  ordinary 
person." 

"He  has  always  been  very  nice  to  me,"  Anne  re- 
peated, gathering  up  her  gloves  and  scarf.  "I  must 
go  and  take  off  my  things  before  tea." 

As  she  turned  away  from  the  fire  she  cast  a  reluct- 
ant glance  at  the  black  mass  that  once  had  been  a 
bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley,  fragrant  in  the  early 
beauty  of  their  dainty  white  and  green.  An  end  of 
wire  stuck  stiffly  up  from  the  charred  stems  and  hurt 
her  oddly. 

For  the  first  time  an  action  of  her  mother's  had 
jarred  on  her.  It  was  as  if  someone  had  laid  careless 
hands  upon  a  pleasure  as  delicate  as  a  butterfly's 


The  Epoch  63 

wing,  and  by  roughness  of  handling  had  rubbed  the 
bloom  ofiE  the  fragile  pretty  thing. 


II 


All  day  a  March  wind  drove  fleecy  clouds  across  a 
sky  of  vivid  blue,  and  ruffled  the  river  to  a  steely 
brightness.  Leaf-buds  were  bursting  into  joyous 
green.  Sparrows  busied  themselves  for  once  about 
their  own  affairs  and  chattered  incessantly  of  the  fact 
to  an  unheeding  world. 

Youth  pulsed  in  Anne  as  the  sap  rises  in  the  trees, 
and  stirred  her  to  a  Spring  restlessness.  She  stood 
by  the  window,  looking  idly  at  stray  bits  of  paper 
that  whirled  in  a  mad  dance  along  the  road;  half- 
expectant,  yet  of  nothing  in  particular,  with  the  vague 
expectancy  induced  by  the  sharp  brightness  of  a  long 
March  evening. 

Lessons  were  over.  She  had  come  in  from  her 
walk.  It  was  hot  near  the  fire,  cold  by  the  window, 
too  late  to  go  out  again,  too  light  to  be  indoors.  She 
envied  the  boys  who  swung  along  the  pavement  on 
roller-skates;  they  went  so  swiftly,  the  motion  looked 
so  delightful.  Sabina  would  call  them  "common- 
ality" and  say  that  "the  quality"  did  not  do  such 
things. 

At  the  moment  it  appeared  to  Anne  as  if  all  the 
really  entrancing  things  of  early  life  were  reserved  for 
the  "commonality,"  and  that  Sabina  was  a  horrid 
snob !  Being  "quality "  seemed  an  inadequate  reason 
for  not  doing  all  the  things  one  wanted  to  do.  One 
by  one  they  flashed  across  her  mind  as  she  stood  by 
the  window  idly  swinging  the  tassel  of  the  blind, 


64  Drifting  Waters 

roused  to  half-conscious  rebellion  by  the  untasted 
Spring.  First,  the  forbidden  joys  of  playing  Hop- 
scotch (or,  as  Sabina  called  it,  "Picky")  on  the  pave- 
ment; of  running  across  bridges  to  see  the  steamers 
come  out  at  the  other  side  and  put  their  funnels  up; 
of  obtaining  the  gay  whirligigs,  the  vivid  sugar-sticks 
which  the  rag  and  bone  man  dolled  out  to  eager 
children  in  exchange  for  nothing  better  than  a  bottle 
or  two  or  a  decayed-looking  corset !  She  had  longed 
above  all  things  for  the  whirligigs,  which  spun  round 
deliciously  in  the  least  puff  of  wind,  but  Sabina  had 
been  as  adamant.  Once,  greatly  daring,  she  had  got 
as  far  as  the  hall-door  with  an  empty  lemonade-bottle, 
when  the  hand  of  Nemesis  or  Sabina  had  descended 
upon  her  shrinking  shoulder.  She  remembered  well 
her  feeling  of  guilty  agony  and  baulked  desire.  It  was 
a  little  thing,  but  the  tragedies  of  children,  which 
loom  as  mountains  in  their  own  eyes,  are  so  small  in 
the  sight  of  the  Big  People  that  they  cannot  see  them 
at  all  without  the  spectacles  of  understanding.  The 
pity  of  it  is  that  so  few  Big  People  own  those  spectacles 
or  even  know  that  they  require  them. 

Now  that  Anne  could  buy  as  many  whirligigs  or 
striped  sugar-sticks  as  she  liked,  the  wish  to  do  so 
had  left  her. 

Such  is  Life ! 

And  her  lilies-of  the-valley  lay  in  the  dust-bin  with 
yesterday's  ashes.  Their  possession  had  given  a 
pleasant  little  glow  to  her  thoughts,  a  faint  quicken- 
ing to  her  pulses.  There  was  no  halo  about  Dr.  Wal- 
dron,  as  her  mother  had  truly  said.  Even  if  there 
had  been  the  veriest  shadow  of  one  Mrs.  Tudor 
had  torn  it  from  him  with  her  deft,  nervous  fingers 


The  Epoch  65 

and  flung  it  into  the  fire  with  the  flowers,  but — he 
was  a  man  and  fairly  young,  and  was  the  first  person 
of  his  sex  who  had  ever  made  Anne  realize  that  she 
was  a  girl  and  growing  up.  A  person  to  whom  he  paid 
little  compliments  and  gave  flowers.  ' '  Lilies  that  were 
whiter  but  no  sweeter  than  her  Christmas  roses,"  he 
had  said  poetically  yesterday.  Her  mother's  manner 
had  prevented  Anne  from  retailing  the  whole  speech. 

There  was  nothing  in  it  really.  Some  swift  dryad 
grace  in  the  girl  stirred  the  man's  pulses  as  Youth 
and  Spring  stirred  hers.  It  was  as  if  he  had  closed 
the  door  of  childhood  behind  her  and  opened  the  gate 
into  an  enchanted  garden  which  neither  entered  as 
yet.  It  is  a  garden  into  which  one  can  never  go 
alone,  and  from  which  some  are  barred  for  ever  by  an 
angel  with  a  flaming  sword. 

For  the  first  time  Anne  felt  a  vague  doubt  of  her 
own  perfect  happiness.  It  was  her  mother  who  had 
sown  the  seed  which  now  pushed  groping  tendrils 
towards  the  light.  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  have 
someone  of  her  own  age  to  play  with,  to  laugh  with, 
to  be  young  with;  someone  who  would  understand 
and  think  her  silly;  someone  who  would  run  along  a 
road  or  through  a  grassy  field  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of 
running;  someone  who  would  outshout  the  loudest 
wind  with  her,  as  she  had  often  longed  to  do,  just  for 
the  joy  of  exultant  sound.  The  someone  of  her 
thoughts  was  sexless  as  the  angels,  but  she  pulled 
herself  up  with  a  jerk  when  she  saw  whither  they  were 
tending.  That  way  lay  disloyalty  to  her  mother 
and  contradiction  of  her  own  direct  assurance.  But 
it  was  her  mother  who  had  first  put  the  idea  into  her 
head.     So  thought  spun. 


66  Drifting  Waters 

Suddenly  the  tassel  fell  from  her  hand. 

"Mother,  a  taxicab  has  just  stopped  outside,"  she 
cried,  looking  round.  Taxicabs  were  rare  as  snow 
in  summer  in  Caroline  Place. 

"Someone  for  Mrs.  Chalfont-Smythe,  in  all  pro- 
bability," returned  Mrs.  Tudor  without  interest. 

Anne's  absolute  normality  had  somewhat  restored 
her  peace  of  mind,  though  Sabina's  insinuations  still 
rankled.  "Don't  stand  staring  at  other  people's 
visitors,  Anne.     It's  ill-bred." 

"But  it's  not  other  people's  visitors,"  said  Anne 
excitedly.  "It's  ours.  It's  a  lady,  a  small  fair  lady, 
and  she's  coming  up  our  steps." 

"A  small  fair  lady?"  echoed  Mrs.  Tudor.  "A 
mistake,  of  course.  Some  friend  of  Mrs.  Waldron's 
probably,  or  a  patient  for  our  friend  the  doctor." 

Since  the  lily  episode  Mrs.  Tudor' s  every  mention 
of  Dr.  Waldron  seemed  to  transfer  him  to  some  far 
distant  plane  where  he  might  perhaps  be  discerned 
with  the  aid  of  a  telescope,  but  from  which  he  could 
never  venture  to  mingle  his  life  with  theirs. 

"She  doesn't  look  like  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Waldron's," 
said  Anne.  "  I  hear  her  ringing  our  bell  now.  People 
don't  come  to  Caroline  Place  by  mistake,  mother. 
How  exciting  if  it  were  really  someone  for  us!" 

"It  couldn't  possibly  be  any  one  for  us,"  Mrs. 
Tudor  said  with  an  air  of  finality.     "No  one " 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  and  shut- 
ting, a  murmur  of  voices,  steps  in  the  hall,  and  the 
hurried  turning  of  a  handle.  Sabina  entered,  stood 
aside,  and  announced  in  a  voice  that  trembled  slightly: 

"Mrs.  Egerton,  ma'am." 

A  little  woman,  muffled  in  white  furs  and  exhaling 


The  Epoch  67 

a  faint  scent  of  orris,  fluttered  into  the  room  with 
hands  outstretched. 

"Margot,  you  unkind  person,  I've  found  you  at 
last!"  she  cried  in  a  high  clear  voice. 

Mrs.  Tudor  rose  from  her  seat,  clutching  its  carved 
arms. 

"Nancy!  You!"  she  whispered,  still  in  that  half- 
crouching  posture.  Her  eyes  dilated;  her  face 
blanched  to  a  ghastly  pallor. 

The  little  woman  fluttered  up  to  her,  put  her  arms 
round  her,  and  kissed  her  unresponsive  cheek. 

"My  poor  Margot,"  she  tinkled.  "I  shouldn't 
have  taken  you  by  surprise,  but  I  knew  there  was 
no  other  way." 

"How  did  you  find  out  where  I  lived?"  Mrs.  Tudor 
breathed,  rather  than  said. 

"The  admirable  Bentley  gave  me  your  address." 

A  sound  escaped  Mrs.  Tudor,  baffled,  oddly 
desperate. 

"My  poor  Margot!"  said  Mrs.  Egerton  again. 
"Don't  look  so  dreadful.     I'm  not  a  ghost." 

"But  you  are,  Nancy,"  the  other  woman  whispered. 
She  drew  a  long  breath  and  seemed  to  recover  herself 
a  little. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  as  you  are  here." 

"You're  not  very  cordial,  Margot." 

"I  don't  feel  cordial,"  returned  Mrs.  Tudor,  roused 
to  sudden  life.  "You  knew  my  desire  for  privacy. 
Why  didn't  you  respect  it?  How  did  you  worm  my 
address  out  of  Mr.  Bentley?  I  told  him  that  I  wished 
to  see  no  one,  that  I  wanted  to  cut  myself  absolutely 
adrift  from  my  old  life." 

"A  most  absurd  desire,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton  with 


68  Drifting  Waters 

wilfiil  lightness.  "I  had  little  difSculty  about  your 
address.     I  can  generally  get  whatever  I  want." 

"Yes.  It's  the  Tudor  way."  There  was  a  con- 
centrated bitterness  in  tone  and  words.  "They 
must  get  whatever  they  want,  regardless  of  what 
they  may  trample  underfoot  on  the  way  to  it." 

"Don't  be  so  hard,  Margot.  Because  Godfrey 
treated  you  badly  is  no  reason  why  you  should  tar 
us  all  with  the  same  brush."  Mrs.  Egerton  loosened 
her  furs  and  patted  a  tendril  of  hair  into  place.  All 
her  movements  were  butterfly-light. 

"How  dare — how  dare  you  mention  his  name  to 
me?" 

"My  dear  woman,  do  let's  be  ordinary.  We  live 
in  an  ordinary  world,  not  in  a  melodrama.  There's 
no  earthly  use  in  hushing  things  up  and  pretending 
they  haven't  existed.  You  offer  your  heart  for  a  stab 
every  time  the  hidden  thing  is  mentioned.  There! 
Now  you  are  making  me  melodramatic." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Tudor's  calmness  broke. 

"It's  not — melodrama,  Nancy.     It's  tragedy." 

A  white  hand  fluttered  out  and  patted  Mrs.  Tudor's 
knee. 

"Poor  Margot!  Poor  old  Margot!  You  always 
did  take  things  very  hard." 

"I  had  won  a  sort  of  peace,  a  sort  of  happiness, 
after  all  these  bitter  years,"  Mrs.  Tudor  went  on, 
still  in  that  broken  voice.  "Why  did  you  come  now 
to  shatter  it?     Why  couldn't  you  have  let  me  alone? " 

"I  don't  want  to  shatter  your  peace  or  do  anything 
to  hurt  you,  you  poor  unreasonable  creature.  I  tried 
to  get  at  you  years  ago  without  success.  Godfrey — 
yes,  I  must  mention  him,  Margot — didn't  know  your 


The  Epoch  69 

address,  and  your  old  Cromwell  wouldn't  give  it  to 
me.  Firm  as  his  namesake  he  was,  and  just  as  de- 
testable !  I  have  been  very  seldom  in  London  during 
these  past  years.  When  we  came  home  on  leave  we 
generally  spent  it  with  Robert's  people,  or  in  Scotland. 
But  now  that  Robert  has  retired  and  we  are  going  to 
settle  down  at  Trent  I  felt  that  I  must  find  you  or  die 
in  the  attempt."  She  paused  for  a  moment.  A 
silence  fell.  Then  Mrs.  Egerton  gave  her  little 
tinkling  laugh.  This  time  it  sounded  a  trifle  sharp- 
edged,  like  broken  glass.  "You  look  as  though  you 
would  rather  I  had  died  in  the  attempt,  Margot!" 

"No,  oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  with  an  effort. 
"You  mustn't  say  that.  It  is — only — well,  rather  a 
shock  to  see  you.     I  am — I  am — unused  to  strangers." 

This  stung.  A  swift  colour  rose  in  Mrs.  Egerton's 
faded  cheeks.  She  looked  hurt  and  yet  puzzled, 
almost  as  a  child  might  who  is  thwarted  for  the  first 
time.     Her  hands  fluttered. 

"How  can  you  call  me  a  stranger?"  she  cried. 
"You  are  hard,  bitter,  Margot.  I,  at  least,  never 
wronged  you.  From  the  time  when  we  were  girls 
together  I  was  always  your  friend.  Why  are  you  so 
unkind?" 

Mrs.  Tudor's  lips  were  set  in  a  straight  line.  She 
did  not  look  at  her  questioner. 

"I've  a  stone  where  my  heart  used  to  be.  That's 
why,  I  suppose." 

"Have  you  forgotten  all  the  old  days,  the  old  ties, 
the  old ?" 

"Don't!"  she  cried  sharply.  "I've  forgotten 
nothing.  I  can't  forget.  I  can  only  pretend  I  do. 
That's  my  punishment.     My  just  punishment  for  the 


70  Drifting  Waters 

sins  of  others!  The  Jews  always  had  a  scapegoat, 
hadn't  they?" 

"Poor  Margot!     How  you  must  have  suffered!" 

"What  do  you  know  of  suffering,  you  little  trivial 
thing?"     Her  words  were  harder  than  her  tone. 

Mrs.  Egerton  rose.  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't  done 
much  good  by  coming.  Robert  was  right  when  he 
advised  me  not  to." 

"Robert  was  always  a  sensible  man." 

"Ah,  you  haven't  forgotten  him.  He  is,  as  you 
say,  horribly  sensible.  He  said  that  if  you  wanted 
to  see  me  you  would  have  let  me  know  your  where- 
abouts years  ago,  and  he  strongly  advised  me  not  to 
worry  old  Bentley  for  your  address.  However,  I 
was  determined  to  have  my  own  way  for  once." 

"For  once?"  echoed  Mrs.  Tudor  with  a  dreary 
smile.  "You  always  had  the  tenacity  of  a  bulldog 
under  your  butterfly  exterior,  Nancy." 

Mrs.  Egerton's  face  relaxed.  She  had  succeeded 
in  making  Margot  smile.     She  scented  triumph. 

"What  a  delightful  metaphor!  To  adopt  it,  I  set 
the  bulldog  at  the  unbending  Bentley's  throat,  and 
it  never  relaxed  its  grip  untU  I  had  secured  your 
address.     Then  I  took  a  taxi  and  drove  straight  here." 

"But  why?"  cried  Mrs.  Tudor,  beating  her  hand 
upon  her  knee.     "Again,  and  again  I  ask  you  why?" 

Mrs.  Egerton  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  drew  a 
long  breath  and  plunged  into  the  heart  of  the  matter. 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  child." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  my  child?"  Mrs. 
Tudor  bent  forward  as  if  she  crouched  for  a  spring. 

"She  is  not  only  your  child,"  Mrs.  Egerton  pursued 
quickly,    a    trifle    maliciously.     "Even    you    can't 


The  Epoch  71 

ignore  the  fact  that  she  is  a  Tudor  by  birth  and 
blood — that  she  is  one  of  us.  That  is  why  I  have 
come." 

Margaret  Tudor  winced  as  if  she  had  been  struck. 
A  thrust  hurts,  but  a  blow  upon  a  green  wound  inflicts 
pain  tenfold.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and  her 
lips  whitened. 

"Dear  Margot,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  or  worry  you," 
the  other  woman  went  on  more  gently.  "I  come  in 
all  love,  in  all  friendship.  I  have  no  children  of  my 
own.     I  would  like  to  see  Godfrey — yours." 

All  this  time  Anne  had  stood  near  the  window  as 
one  entranced;  her  very  existence  forgotten  for  once 
by  her  mother.  She  had  a  strange  dual  consciousness 
of  the  scene  enacted  before  her.  To  one  side  of  her 
mind  it  seemed  unreal,  almost  as  a  stage  scene  with 
which  she  had  nothing  to  do,  while  the  other  side  was 
dimly  aware  of  the  vital  issues  touched  therein,  issues 
that  concerned  her  very  nearly.  At  mention  of  her 
she  stepped  forward  from  the  shadow  of  the  ciu"tain 
and  turned  towards  her  mother. 

"Ah,  Anne,  I  had  forgotten  that  you  were  there. 
Come  here,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor.  Face  and 
voice  were  now  drained  of  all  but  an  intense  weariness, 
as  if  her  vitality  had  ebbed  through  that  twice-thrust 
wound. 

Anne  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  her  mother's 
chair.  She  had  an  odd  sense  that  they  two  stood 
alone  and  faced  the  world,  as  they  had  fronted  Mr. 
Bentley  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Egerton's  expression  changed  at  sight  of  the 
girl. 

"Come  and  kiss  me,  Anne,"  she  said  gently.     "I 


72  Drifting  Waters 

am  your  Aunt  Nancy,  your  namesake,  the  Anne  Tudor 
of  the  passing  generation." 

Anne  stooped  to  the  little  figure  in  the  chair  by  the 
fire,  and  lightly  touched  her  soft  powdered  cheek  with 
her  fresh  young  lips.  To  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Egerton 
flung  her  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her  two  or  three 
times  with  an  unexpected  warmth. 

"  Didn't  you  know  you  had  an  Aunt  Nancy,  child? " 
she  asked  as  she  released  her. 

"No,"  Anne  answered  quietly.  "I  don't  know 
anything  about  my  Tudor  relations.  Mother  said 
she  would  tell  me  about  them  some  day,  but " 

"I  came  before  the  day,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Egerton. 
"You're  a  queer  mixture  of  Tudor  and  Warrener, 
Anne.  You're  very  like  your  mother,  and  yet  extra- 
ordinarily a  Tudor  as  well."  She  shot  a  glance  to- 
wards the  tense  figure  in  the  carved  chair.  Necessity 
had  never  taught  her  to  set  curb  and  snaffle  upon  her 
speech.  Mrs.  Tudor  stirred.  "In  colouring  only," 
she  put  in  quickly. 

"Yes,  she  has  the  black  locks  of  the  Tudors,"  said 
Mrs.  Egerton.  "The  black  locks  of  the  wild  Tudors, 
but  not  their  eyes  of  sloe." 

"But  you — "  began  Anne,  looking  at  the  piquant 
faded  little  face  in  its  frame  of  light  fluffy  hair. 

"I'm  a  horrible  mongrel,  my  dear,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Egerton.  "I  have  the  Tudor  eyes,  but  no  more,  not 
even  a  strain  of  the  family  wildness.  Eyes  of  sloe 
and  hair  of  tow,  I've  got.     A  nice  mixture!" 

"Anne,  you  need  not  stay,"  said  her  mother 
suddenly. 

"Very  well,  mother." 

"Don't  banish  the  child,  Margot." 


The  Epoch  73 

"I  would  rather  speak  to  you  alone,"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor,  her  eyes  ranging  jealously  from  face  to  face. 
"Anne  can  come  back  to  say  good-bye." 

"Don't  forget  then,  you  young  Tudor  sapling," 
called  Mrs.  Egerton,  as  Anne  went  obediently  towards 
the  door. 

"I  never  forget  things.  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  curious  intentness  which  Mrs.  Egerton  noted 
at  the  moment  and  as  quickly  forgot. 


Ill 


When  Anne  closed  the  door  behind  her  she  found 
to  her  amazement  that  her  hands  were  trembling. 
She  held  them  out  and  looked  at  them  for  a  moment 
in  detached  wonder.  Then  she  smote  them  hard,  one 
against  the  other. 

"It's  absurd,"  she  said  to  herself,  biting  her  lip  so 
that  the  pain  might  sting  her  back  to  self-control. 
"I  won't  tremble.  Why  should  I  tremble?  I  don't 
want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  Tudors.  They 
hurt  my  mother.  I'm  not  one  of  them.  I  won't  be 
one  of  them." 

Yet  all  the  while  she  childishly  protested  some  tug 
of  race,  some  undesired  call  of  the  blood  told  her  that 
no  denial  could  make  her  anything  but  a  Tudor — 
"one  of  us,"  as  Aunt  Nancy  had  said  with  butterfly 
pride. 

Butterfly  was  the  one  possible  simile  for  Mrs. 
Egerton.  Everything  about  her  suggested  the  airy 
Psyche:  her  lightness  of  poise  and  movement,  her 
fluttering  gestures,  her  fine  delicacy  of  line  and  feature, 
the  minute   perfection  of  her  whole  dainty  person. 


74  Drifting  Waters 

Yet  there  was  something  underneath  which  was  not 
wholly  slight  or  trivial.  Vaguely  the  girl  felt  that 
the  fragile  porcelain  held  an  essence.  There  had  been 
nothing  light  or  airy  in  the  embrace  which  she  had 
given  Anne;  it  had  owned  a  passion,  even  a  hunger 
which  had  touched  the  girl  the  while  she  half -resented 
it. 

How  could  she  love  to  order  a  person  whom  she 
had  never  seen,  of  whom  she  had  never  heard  until 
this  moment?  She  was  not  prepared  even  to  like 
any  one  whose  coming  had  so  disturbed  her  mother. 
Still  the  memory  of  those  clinging  arms  remained 
uncomfortably  with  her.  How  could  she  bear  to 
repulse  a  little  creature  who  appealed  with  such  a 
touching  silence?  Her  generous  young  heart  recoiled 
from  the  idea.  Already  she  felt  that  sense  of  protec- 
tion towards  the  older  Anne  Tudor  which  most  people 
experienced  on  meeting  Mrs.  Egerton. 

Her  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  Her  world  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  turned  upside  down,  and  in  the 
topsyturvy  that  ensued  nothing  seemed  stable. 

Stay,  there  was  a  tinkle  and  a  clatter  in  the  dining- 
room  that  surely  spelt  Sabina?  Here,  then,  was 
something  immutable  to  cling  to  in  a  disintegrated 
universe. 

Anne  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  Sabina,  red  and  agitated,  was  laying  the 
table  for  dinner. 

Here  everything  looked  the  same  as  it  had  done 
yesterday,  and  all  the  forgotten  yesterdays  that  lie 
in  the  dust-heap  of  the  past. 

The  fire,  newly-lit,  crackled  and  sputtered  in  the 
grate,  sending  up  blue  flames  in  rivalry  with   the 


The  Epoch  75 

setting  sun,  whose  last  rays  slanted  through  the  win- 
dow, and  struck  brightness  from  the  crystal  and 
silver  on  the  table. 

Anne  looked  with  relief  round  the  well-known  room, 
with  its  black-framed  engravings  on  the  grey-green 
walls,  its  bookshelves  in  the  corner  stacked  in  the 
bottom  shelf  with  her  own  lesson-books,  and  its 
straight  Indian  curtains  of  faded  scarlet.  Then  she 
looked  at  Sabina,  whose  homely  face  had  lost  for 
the  moment  its  usual  expression  of  imperturbable 
superiority. 

"Sabina,  you  goose,  you're  laying  the  table  all 
wrong,"  she  cried,  glad  of  an  opportunity  for  action. 
"You're  putting  the  forks  at  the  right-hand  and  the 
knives  at  the  left-hand  sides." 

"I  can't  help  it.  Miss  Anne.  I'm  that  floostered 
you  might  be  wondering  it  wasn't  on  me  head  I  was 
putting  them." 

"Let  me  do  it.  Sit  down  and  take  a  long  breath 
and  count  a  hundred.  Then  you'll  feel  better,  and  I 
shall  have  worked  off  some  of  my  excitement." 

"Is  it  excitement?"  cried  Sabina,  sitting  stiffly  on 
the  edge  of  the  nearest  chair.  "  'Tis  no  wonder  you're 
excited,  me  poor  child,  with  the  past  lepping  out  on 
you  like  that,  and  yourself  knowing  no  more  about 
it  than  the  babe  unborn!  I  give  you  me  word,  Miss 
Anne,  I  didn't  know  if  it  was  dead  or  alive  I  was,  or 
awake  or  asleep  when  I  opened  the  door  and  saw  Miss 
Nancy  (that  was)  standing  there  before  me  on  the 
steps!" 

"Did  you  know  her  as  long  ago  as  that?"  asked 
Anne  gathering  up  the  spoons  and  making  a  star  of 
them  on  the  table. 


76  Drifting  Waters 

"Is  it  know  Miss  Nancy?  Sure  the  Tudors  and 
the  Warreners  were  like  the  one  family  in  the  days 
gone  by,  'Twas  the  way  Miss  Nancy's  father — a 
fine  gentleman,  God  bless  him ! — had  a  lodge  in  County 
Galway  ovemght  your  grandfather  the  Colonel's 
place.  They  used  to  come  there  for  the  fishing  every 
summer  as  ever  was,  and  day  and  night  Miss  Mar- 
garet, the  mistress,  I  mean,  was  fishing  and  boating 
and  bathing  and  all  sorts  of  antics  with  Miss  Nancy 
and  the  young  gentlemen." 

"Was  that  how — ?"  Anne  began,  and  then 
stopped. 

Sabina  understood  the  half-uttered  query.  She 
understood,  too,  the  girl's  desire  to  hear  and  hesitation 
to  question;  therefore  with  voluble  tact  she  plunged 
once  more  into  speech. 

"That  was  the  very  how,  and  'tis  Nature's  way 
with  boys  and  girls,  be  they  quality  or  commonality. 
A  beautiful  young  lady  was  Miss  Margaret  in  them 
days,  and  a  lovely  young  gentleman  entirely  was  the 
Captain,  though  the  divil  a  Captain  was  he  then. 
Ne'er  an  eye  had  she  ever  for  another,  and  'twas  all 
the  pities  of  the  world — all  the  pities  of  the  world — " 
Sabina  broke  off  abruptly  and  nodded  her  head  over 
and  over  again. 

With  an  odd  flash  Anne's  memory  carried  her  back 
to  her  childish  idea  of  what  it  meant  to  bow  to  the 
Inevitable!  That  was  what  Sabina  was  doing  now — 
bowing  to  the  Inevitable.  But  had  it  really  been 
inevitable?  She  longed  to  know,  but  pride  forbade 
her  to  question  a  servant. 

With  uncanny  intuition  Sabina  answered  her 
unspoken  thought. 


The  Epoch  ']^ 

*"Twas  the  way  poor  Miss  Margaret  made  the 
mistake  that  so  many  women  make,  Lord  love  their 
ignorance !  She  forgot  that  when  the  Almighty  made 
Adam  and  Eve,  man  and  woman  created  He  them. 
He  made  them  different  then  and  meant  them  to  he 
different.  What's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  not  sauce  for 
the  gander,  no  matter  if  all  the  proverbs  in  the  world 
went  down  on  their  knees  and  swore  it  was  till  they 
was  black  in  the  face!" 

Anne  laughed  a  little  at  the  picture  of  the  black- 
faced  kneeling  proverbs.  Then  she  undid  her  star 
of  spoons  and  arranged  them  in  their  rightful  places. 

"Was  that  why — ?"  she  asked  again. 

"That  was  the  very  why,"  Sabina  repeated.  "A 
man  is  a  man  and  a  woman  a  woman,  and  will  be  so 
till  the  Last  Day.  They're  made  different,  and  must 
be  judged  different  in  all  fairity." 

Anne  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  New  aspects  of 
life  were  being  presented  to  her  with  the  wheeling 
velocity  of  a  kaleidoscope.  She  took  her  mother's 
napkin  and  begun  to  fold  it  into  the  shape  of  a  water- 
lily,  crowning  its  centre  with  a  crisp  smooth  bun. 
Then  she  glanced  whimsically  at  Sabina,  who  sat 
watching  her,  watching  quietly  and  wondering. 

"Sabina,"  she  said,  "you  seem  to  know  a  lot  for  a 
spinster." 

"I  wasn't  always  a  spinster,  the  Lord  be  thanked!" 
answered  Sabina,  unexpectedly. 

Anne  sat  down  abruptly. 

"  Sabina !  You  sheep  in  wolf's  clothing ! '  *  she  cried, 
more  astonished  at  this  revelation  than  at  any  which 
had  gone  before.  "  I  suppose  you  '11  confess  next  that 
you  have  a  large  family  hidden  away  somewhere!" 


78  Drifting  Waters 

"Indeed  I  will  not,  Miss  Anne,"  Sabina  answered 
with  some  asperity.  "Ne'er  a  child  had  I  ever  to 
torment  me  but  yourself,  and  you  were  heart-scald 
enough  sometimes,  the  dear  knows.  'Twas  the  way 
I  was  married  to  a  sailor  fella  when  I  was  a  young  slip 
of  a  girl  not  much  older  than  yourself." 

"You  weren't,  Sabina!  This  is  thrilling.  Do  go 
on. 

"We-ell,"  continued  Sabina  in  the  proper  narrative 
tone,  "'twas  the  way  the  poor  fella  left  me  for  an- 
other girl,  and  I  was  that  upset  and  offended  I  would 
have  no  more  to  do  with  him.  So  I  stopped  being 
married,  and  took  back  me  maiden  name,  and  went 
out  to  service  at  the  Colonel's  as  Sabina  Delaney. 
And  Sabina  Delaney  I've  been  ever  since,  and  will  be 
to  my  dying  day.     And  that's  all,  Miss  Anne." 

"All?"  Anne  echoed.  "But  did  you  never  hear 
anything  more  of  your  husband,  Sabina?" 

"I  heard  tell  once  that  he  was  drownded,"  returned 
Sabina,  with  what  seemed  to  the  girl  deplorable 
callousness,  "but  I  never  believed  it.  That  fella 
has  nine  lives  the  same  as  a  cat." 

"But  don't  you  care  at  all  for  him?  Have  you 
forgiven  him?"  Anne  asked  curiously.  This  upset 
her  preconceived  ideas. 

"Divil  a  care  do  I  care,"  answered  Sabina  stoutly; 
"and  as  for  forgiving  him,  sure  I  forgave  him  long 
ago.  'Twas  the  way  she  had  him  tempted,  the  poor 
fella,  and  he  only  a  man,  and  a  sailor  man  at  that. 
Some  o'  them  women,  Miss  Anne — "  upraised  hands 
and  eyes  completed  the  ellipsis. 

Anne  was  frankly  puzzled.  None  of  the  books  of 
her  mental  tapestry  had  treated  love  or  romance  like 


The  Epoch  79 

this.  Sabina's  attitude  also  was  provocatively  differ- 
ent from  all  she  had  ever  read  of. 

"Supposing  he  came  back?"  she  hinted.  "Sup- 
posing— oh,  supposing  he — wanted  you  to  return  to 
him,  Sabina?" 

To  her  surprise  an  embarrassed  red  flushed  Sabina's 
face  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"  Want  mustbe  hismaster,  then, "  she  answered  stiffly . 
"Didn't  I  tell  you,  Miss  Anne,  that  I'd  stopped  being 
married?     How  could  I  go  back  to  him  after  that?" 

"But — but — you  can't  stop  being  married,  can 
you?     I  thought " 

'' Fve  done  it,"  Sabina  repeated,  still  with  that  look 
of  embarrassment. 

"Are  you — legally  separated  from  him,  Sabina? 
People  can  be  that — "  she  stopped,  fragments  of 
half -forgotten  conversations  ringing  in  her  ears. 

"  Divil  a  legally,"  retorted  Sabina.  "  I  just  stopped 
being  married  to  him.     That's  all." 

The  door  of  Mrs.  Tudor's  sitting-room  opened  and 
her  voice  called:  "Anne!" 

"Coming,  mother,"  said  Anne,  slipping  a  bun  into 
the  heart  of  her  own  water-lily.  "All  the  same, 
Sabina,  I  don't  believe  that  you  can  stop  being  married 
whenever  you  like  yourself." 

"You're  only  a  child.  Miss  Anne,  and  knows  no 
better!" 

"The  other  day  you  told  me  I  was  all  but  a  grown- 
up young  lady,"  retorted  Anne,  her  plaits  flying  as 
she  sped  towards  the  door.  "You're  as  changeable 
as  a  weathercock,  Sabina,  my  dear." 

"I'm  satisfied,"  returned  Sabina,  rising  and  placing 
a  bowl  of  daffodils  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 


8o  Drifting  Waters 

IV 

To  Anne's  surprise  she  found  that  her  heart 
was  beating  perceptibly  as  she  entered  the  sitting- 
room. 

The  composition  of  the  group  had  changed  a  Httle 
since  she  had  left  it ;  the  chairs  were  drawn  to  a  closer 
angle,  one  that  suggested  less  of  unfriendliness;  yet 
to  her  perception  constraint  hovered  in  the  air.  Pon- 
sonby  was  perched  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  raising 
and  depressing  his  yeUow  crest  against  her  cheek. 
In  moments  of  stress  Mrs.  Tudor  seemed  to  derive 
some  odd  comfort  from  the  bird,  whose  language  she 
alone  understood.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind  the 
tickling  lemon  feathers  whose  touch  would  have  driven 
Anne  to  a  frenzy.  Bird  and  woman  seemed  to  under- 
stand and  depend  upon  each  other  in  some  strange 
fellowship. 

Mrs.  Egerton's  "eyes  of  sloe"  regarded  Anne  with 
a  look  as  brightly  black  as  a  thrush's  as  she  came  to 
her  mother's  side  with  swift  long  step. 

"So  that's  settled,"  she  said  airily. 

"Nothing  is  settled,"  Mrs.  Tudor  replied,  putting 
out  a  quick  hand  to  Anne. 

"Well,  almost,"  Mrs.  Egerton  admitted,  still  with 
her  eyes  on  the  girl's  changing  face.  "I  think  Anne 
should  be  given  the  casting  vote." 

"There  is  no  casting  vote.  It  is  as  I  choose  to 
decide." 

"  Still  I  venture  to  think  that  Anne's  opinion  should 
help  to  influence  your  decision." 

Anne  looked  at  her  aunt.  Her  face  was  still  flushed ; 
the  smiling  mouth  compressed.     The  butterfly  was 


The  Epoch  8i 

doing  battle.  Was  it  on  her  behalf?  What  did  Aunt 
Nancy  want?     What  awaited  her  opinion? 

She  glanced  down  at  her  mother,  whose  clasp 
tightened.  Nothing  was  to  be  read  there.  With  her 
free  hand  Mrs.  Tudor  stroked  the  cockatoo's  breast 
absently.  Ponsonby  sidled  along  her  shoulder  and 
back  again  close  to  her  ear,  into  which  he  poured  a 
volume  of  gurgling  confidences  interspersed  with 
impish  chuckles. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Margot,  put  that  odious  bird 
away!"  cried  Mrs.  Egerton,  in  a  sudden  gust  of 
irritation.  "He  is  like  your  familiar.  I'm  sure  he 
has  give  you  nothing  but  bad  advice  in  all  these  years. 
Not  so  long  ago  he  would  have  had  you  burned  as  a 
witch.     Do  put  him  away." 

"No,  no,"  Mrs.  Tudor  put  her  hand  about  the 
bird.  "I  must  have  Ponsonby.  He  and  I  under- 
stand each  other.  We  have  been  through  bad  times 
and  good  together.     Haven't  we,  Ponsonby?" 

Ponsonby  became  voluble.     His  mistress  smiled. 

Mrs.  Egerton  shrugged  away  her  annoyance.  "I 
give  you  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  turn  to  Anne  for  a  little 
commonsense.  Have  you  got  any  of  that  very  un- 
common commodity,  Anne?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  have."  Anne's  smile 
softened  her  aunt  still  further. 

"The  question  at  issue  is  this,"  Mrs.  Egerton 
continued. 

"I  will  tell  her  myself,"  Mrs.  Tudor  interrupted. 

"Pardon  me,  Margot,  but  I  cannot  imagine  that 
you  would  be  exactly  unbiassed."  The  red  on  Mrs. 
Egerton's  cheeks  deepened.  "I  came  here  today 
chiefly  to  see  you,  Anne,  and  to  make  arrangements 

6 


82  Drifting  Waters 

with  your  mother  to  see  more  of  you  in  future.  You 
are  my  solitary  Tudor  niece.  My  other  brothers, 
your  uncles,  have  only  achieved  sons.  I  was  very 
fond  of  your  father.  I  am  still,  in  spite  of  all  his 
misdemeanours.  Your  mother  and  I  were  close 
friends  in  girlhood.  It  hurt  me  deeply  when  she  cut 
herself  adrift  from  us  all." 

"How  many  sleepless  nights  did  it  give  you, 
Nancy?"  asked  Mrs.  Tudor,  with  a  bitter  little  smile. 

"Your  mother  has  suffered  much  at  Tudor  hands," 
Mrs.  Egerton  went  on,  ignoring  the  interruption. 
"I  don't  want  either  to  condone  or  condemn.  Still  I 
do  think  that  you,  Anne,  ought  to  see  more  of  your 
own  people,  ought  to  learn  something  of  the  world 
that  lies  outside  your  own  particular  little  groove." 

"I  am  quite  happy  here,"  Anne  cried,  loyalty 
stifling  the  half -uttered  doubt  which  had  assailed  her 
— was  it  only  an  hour  ago? 

"I  am  sure  you  are.  I  don't  want  to  disturb  that 
happiness  in  the  least." 

"Your  very  coming  has  disturbed  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor,  as  if  to  the  bird.  "Anne  is  young  and  youth 
likes  change.  The  novelty  of  your  coming  has  broken 
the  peace  of  our  days.  It  is  like  a  stone  thrown  into 
a  pool,  creating  circles  in  the  water  which  spread 
and  spread  until  they  touch — what?  Eternity, 
perhaps." 

"Out  of  your  own  mouth  you  have  condemned 
yoiirself,  Margot,"  returned  Mrs.  Egerton,  with 
difficult  self-control.  "Anne  is  young  and  youth 
needs  change.  You  don't  want  the  pool  to  grow 
stagnant,  do  you?  There  was  another  pool  of  which 
we've  read  whose  waters  were  troubled  by  an  angel. 


The  Epoch  83 

Please  try  to  look  on  me  as  an  angel  instead  of  the 
horrid  stone  of  your  simile." 

Mrs.  Tudor  smiled  disagreeably  and  rubbed  her 
cheek  against  the  curve  of  Ponsonby's  wing. 

"She  is  just  the  same  Miss  Nancy  as  ever,  isn't 
she,  my  bird?  Never  happy  unless  everyone  is 
swinging  censers  of  adoration  before  her  shrine?" 

Mrs.  Egerton  bit  her  lips  and  turned  again  to  Anne, 
who  gave  her  mother's  hand  a  little  squeeze  in  quick 
discomfort  at  her  perversity.  The  black  eyes  that 
met  her  grey  ones  were  misty.  The  sight  melted 
Anne.  She  felt  torn  between  the  two  women,  who 
seemed,  in  some  silent,  intangible  way,  to  be  fighting 
for  her.  She  loved  her  mother  best  of  all  created 
beings,  yet  she  was  oddly  drawn  to  this  little  woman 
of  her  own  blood  who  had  fluttered  so  strangely  into 
her  life.  She  was  suddenly  aware  that  she  would  be 
sorry  if  Aunt  Nancy  vanished  from  her  ken  as  swiftly 
as  she  had  entered  it.  The  knowledge  surprised  her. 
She  had  not  meant  to  feel  like  this. 

A  piece  of  coal  fell  from  the  fire.  The  little  clatter 
broke  the  tension.  Anne  released  her  mother's  hand 
and  went  to  pick  it  up.  Mrs.  Tudor,  following  her 
every  movement  with  her  eyes,  gave  a  long  shudder- 
ing sigh  as  if  the  action  of  Anne's  detachment  held 
some  symbolic  meaning. 

"All  these  recriminations,  my  dear  Anne,"  said 
Mrs.  Egerton,  "are  caused  by  the  simple  fact  that 
I  have  invited  you  and  your  mother  to  stay  with 
me. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Anne,  looking  up  from  where  she 
knelt  by  the  fire. 

Dusk  was  falling  without,  and  the  shadows  length- 


84  Drifting  Waters 

ened  in  the  room.  The  warm  glow  of  the  firelight 
illumined  the  girl's  face,  revealing  it  in  one  of  its  rare 
moments  of  beauty. 

Mrs.  Egerton  was  startled. 

"Why,  Margot,  your  child  is  going  to  be  lovely!" 
she  cried  impulsively. 

Anne  flushed  deeper  and  turned  away  her  head. 
Rising  from  the  fireside  she  withdrew  to  her  own  little 
stool,  where  she  sat  half  hidden  in  the  shadows. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  sharply.  "Anne  is 
no  beauty,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  If  I  let  her  go  to 
you,  you'd  spoil  her  utterly." 

Mrs.  Egerton  caught  at  the  hint  of  a  possibility. 
Up  to  this  it  had  been  flat  denial. 

"Come  too  and  see  that  I  don't,"  she  urged 
generously. 

Mrs.  Tudor  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no.     I  couldn't  go.     I  couldn't  see  people." 

"It  would  do  you  a  world  of  good  if  you  did." 

"It  would  kill  me.  I  have  grown  to  this  little 
house  as  a  limpet  grows  to  a  rock." 

"Even  limpets  have  been  known  to  move." 

"Yes,  if  they  move  of  their  own  free  will.  If  you 
remove  them  forcibly  they  die." 

" Do  you  want  Anne  to  become  a  limpet  too?" 

"No.  Yes.  I  don't  know.  She  might  be  happier 
so. 

"Margot,  I've  no  patience  with  you.  I  couldn't 
have  believed  that  you  would  be  so  unutterably  self- 
ish !  Even  you  must  see  that  the  child  has  a  separate 
life,  a  separate  entity  from  yours.  It  is  horribly 
unfair  to  condemn  her,  in  her  ignorance  of  all  that 
life  means,  or  may  mean,  to  an  existence  which  you 


The  Epoch  85 

have  deliberately  chosen  out  of  the  depths  of  your 
own  suffering.     It  is  worse.     It  is  a  cruel  wrong." 

"Hush!  Please  don't  get  hysterical,  Nancy.  Anne, 
have  I  been  cruel  to  you?" 

"Mother!"  cried  the  girl,  springing  to  her  side. 

"Anne  is  only  a  child.  Of  course  she  will  side  with 
you,  and  quite  right  too.  Besides,  your  question 
isn't  a  fair  one." 

"I  know  it  isn't,"  Mrs.  Tudor  conceded.  "I 
spoke  in  a  moment's  heat.  I  have  no  wish  to  prolong 
this  scene,  which  is  unutterably  painful  to  me.  I 
believe  that  your  coming  was  kindly  meant,  but  it 
was  a  mistake.  The  past  is  dead.  I  have  no  wish 
to  revive  it." 

"The  past  can  never  die,"  quoted  Mrs.  Egerton 
unexpectedly.  "  It  follows  on  the  heels  of  the  present 
like  a  dog  lurking  in  the  shadows,  and  you  never 
know  when  it  will  spring  out  upon  you." 

"Aunt  Nancy !  How  horrible ! "  cried  Anne  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"Nancy  among  the  prophets,  and  no  Cassandra 
either,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  with  her  bitter  little  smile. 

Mrs.  Egerton  rose,  pulling  her  white  furs  about  her. 

"Well,  am  I  to  have  Anne  for  a  little  visit?"  she 
asked,  ignoring  both  remarks. 

"You  are  persistent,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor.  Then  she 
turned  to  Anne  with  an  air  of  laying  the  responsibility 
on  her.  "What  do  you  say,  Anne?  Would  you  like 
to  pay  your  aunt  a  visit?" 

Something  in  the  tone  told  Anne  that  her  mother's 
hopes  hung  upon  a  "no."  Mrs.  Egerton  said  nothing, 
but  smiled  persuasively.  Contrary  desires  warred 
within  the  girl.     The  spirit  of  youth  and  adventtu"e 


86  Drifting  Waters 

urged  for  "yes,"  but  on  the  other  hand  she  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  disappointing  her  mother  after 
all  that  she  had  suffered.     She  hesitated. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Aunt  Nancy.  It  is  very 
kind  of  you,  but  I  think  perhaps  I'd  better  not." 

"Just  a  little  visit  in  April,  in  the  Easter  holidays, 
when  all  the  young  people  will  be  at  home,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Egerton  in  a  soft  cooing  voice. 

A  vision  of  the  country  in  April,  "when  upon  or- 
chard and  lane  breaks  the  white  foam  of  the  spring," 
of  green  fields,  of  branches  leaf-misted,  of  herself 
running,  wild  as  a  colt,  with  the  other  young  people 
as  her  mother  used  to  do  in  days  gone  by,  flashed, 
iris-tinted,  across  her  mind.  Surely,  surely  her  mother 
would  understand,  would  not  be  hurt  at  her  desire  to 

go. 

"Mother!"  she  cried,  the  whole  appeal  of  youth 
for  the  joys  of  youth  vibrant  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Tudor  turned  away  her  head. 

"You  must  do  exactly  as  you  like,  Anne.  You 
have  an  absolutely  free  choice." 

Though  her  words  gave  freedom  her  tone  shackled. 

A  wave  of  disappointment  flooded  Anne.  Had  her 
mother  completely  forgotten  what  it  meant  to  be 
young?  So  many  Big  People  did.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  some  of  them  ever  had  been 
young,  so  deeply  had  middle-age  drunk  of  Lethe's 
water. 

"Mother!"  she  said  again,  her  voice  choked. 

Mrs.  Egerton  strangled  speech,  and  smiled  in  a 
difficult  silence. 

"Would  you  like  to  go,  Anne?"  asked  Mrs.  Tudor 
in  her  most  detached  way. 


The  Epoch  87 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should.  Just  for  a  little,  if  you  are 
sure  you  don't  mind,"  murmured  Anne  uncomfortably. 

"Oh,  I  am  past  minding  anything,"  her  mother 
returned. 

Anne  felt  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  transported 
to  the  chilly  distance  of  Dr.  Waldron's  plane.  It 
was  not  fair.  Well,  if  she  were  to  be  put  there  she 
might  as  well  have  the  pleasure  of  this  visit,  if  it  really 
would  be  a  pleasure.  Her  mother's  tone  had  drained 
the  vision  of  its  first  joy.  Stilling  her  trembling  voice 
as  best  she  might,  she  took  her  first  plunge  into  the 
unknown. 

"As  mother  doesn't  mind  I  think  I  will  go,  thanks, 
Aunt  Nancy,"  she  said  rather  chokily. 

Mrs.  Egerton  waved  sentiment  aside,  having  gained 
her  point. 

"That's  all  right,  dear,"  she  said  airily.  "I  will 
write  to  you  later  on  about  trains  and  those  dull  de- 
tails, and  I'll  do  my  best  to  give  you  a  pleasant  time." 

"Thank  you." 

"  I  think  you'll  be  happy  with  us,  you  big  little  Anne. 
Your  Uncle  Robert  and  I  love  to  have  young  things 
about  us.  You  shall  run  absolutely  wild  for  a  bit,  as 
your  mother  and  I  used  to  do  long  ago."  She  turned 
to  her  sister-in-law  with  a  little  gesture  of  appeal. 
"Do  you  remember,  Margot?" 

Mrs.  Tudor  moved  impatiently  but  said  nothing. 

"I  forgot,"  said  the  other  very  low.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you.  Why  should  the  memory  of  happy 
days  have  a  sting  in  days  less  happy?  One  has  had 
them,  anyhow.  Good-bye,  Margot.  It  is  very  good 
of  you  to  lend  this  child  to  me  for  a  little.  I  wish  you 
would  come  too." 


88  Drifting  Waters 

"Good-bye,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  dully,  holding  out 
her  hand. 

Her  chill  aloofness  prevented  the  other  from  coming 
closer,  but  their  eyes  met  and  held  each  other  for  a 
moment  before  they  parted. 

Then  Mrs.  Egerton  turned  away  with  a  little  sigh 
and  slipped  her  hand  through  Anne's  arm. 

"See  me  to  the  door,  won't  you? "  she  said  coaxingly. 

"Yes,  Anne.  Open  the  door  for  your  aunt,"  said 
Mrs.  Tudor. 

As  they  went  out  together  she  sank  back  into  her 
chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  No  tears 
fell,  but  it  was  as  if  ice  bound  her  heart. 

"The  Tudor  way,"  she  breathed.  "The  conquer- 
ing Tudor  way!" 


"When  Anne  came  back  into  the  dusky  room,  lit  now 
only  by  the  leaping  gleams  of  firelight,  she  paused 
near  her  mother's  chair.  There  was  no  response  from 
the  seated  figure;  no  slightest  movement  to  with- 
hold or  draw  nearer.  The  girl  was  uncomfortably 
conscious  of  a  barrier:  slight,  intangible,  if  you  will, 
but  still  a  barrier. 

This  must  not  be.  No  filmiest  cloud  must  arise 
between  her  and  her  best-beloved.  The  moment 
between  her  pause  and  slipping  of  her  arm  round  her 
mother's  neck  was  almost  imperceptible,  yet  to  the 
strained  nerves  of  the  waiting  woman  it  seemed 
ominous  as  the  opening  of  a  crack  that  is  to  widen  to 
a  gulf. 

"Dearest,  I  wish  you'd  have  said — "Anne  began, 


The  Epoch  89 

then  drew  away  her  hand  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 
"Ugh!  Ponsonby's  bitten  me!  Bad,  wicked  old 
bird!" 

"Has  he  really  hurt  you,  Anne?"  asked  Mrs.  Tudor, 
still  with  that  rebuffing  air  of  detachment. 

"Oh,  not  much,  "  Anne  returned,  sucking  her  finger. 
"He's  only  just  broken  the  skin." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  repeat  her  caress,  but  went  to 
the  fireplace  and  stood  there,  resting  her  elbow  upon 
the  chimney  piece. 

Mrs.  Tudor  leaned  back  with  a  half-suppressed 
sigh. 

"Mother,  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  if  you'd  rather 
I  didn't  go,"  the  girl  broke  out. 

"You  have  made  your  choice." 

"Yes,  but " 

"The  Warreners,  at  least,  have  always  kept  their 
word." 

Anne  felt  a  prick.     "Haven't  the  Tudors?" 

Silence  fell  for  a  moment.  The  shadows  gathered. 
One  deeper  than  the  others  seemed  to  close  about  the 
girl's  spirit  as  she  listened  for  her  mother's  answer. 
At  last  it  came,  two  coldly-weighed  words. 

"Not— always." 

Anne  thrust  out  one  hand  as  if  to  push  something 
from  her. 

"Mother,  you  ought  to  tell  me  more.  You  ought 
to  tell  me  about — about  my  own  people.  Why  do 
you  hate  them  so?". 

She  had  no  idea  how  the  words  "my  own  people" 
stung.  They  quickened  Mrs.  Tudor  to  an  effort 
which  would  have  been  impossible  a  moment  before. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  drew  it  away  again, 


90  Drifting  Waters 

as  if  she  drew  a  veil  with  it.  Her  eyes  burned  sombrely 
upon  her  child,  so  suddenly  grown  alien. 

"I  always  meant  to  tell  you  when  you  were  old 
enough,"  she  said.  "Your  aunt's  coming  precipi- 
tated matters.  I  cannot  speak  much  of  what  is  inex- 
pressively painful  to  me.  I  must  beg  that  you  will 
neither  question  nor  comment,  nor  even  refer  to  the 
matter  again." 

"Don't  tell  me  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"I  must — now.  Before  you  become  irrevocably 
'one  of  us'  it  is  as  well  that  you  should  know  what 
being  a  Tudor  implies."  Her  lips  curled.  "I  mar- 
ried— your  father  when  I  was  twenty.  I  had  never 
loved  any  other  man.  I  gave  him — "  Her  voice 
trembled;  she  stopped  abruptly,  then  caught  at  her 
self-control  and  went  on.  "When  you  were  two  years 
old  he  betrayed  me." 

"Betrayed  you?"  Anne  could  not  restrain  the 
horrified  echo. 

"He  left  me  for  another  woman.  I  found  it  out 
and  divorced  him.  Then  I  brought  you  home  and 
cut  myself  off,  as  I  had  hoped,  from  the  Tudors  for 
ever.  That  is  all  you  need  to  know.  It  is  an  ugly 
story  for  your  young  ears.  I  would  have  spared  you 
if  I  could." 

The  inexorable  voice  killed  childhood  in  Anne  once 
and  for  all.  Beneath  the  mask  of  passivity  she 
divined  the  hidden  suffering,  and  all  her  budding 
womanhood  welled  towards  her  in  sympathy.  Ignor- 
ing her  aloofness  she  ran  to  her,  and  kneeling  by  her 
side  flung  straining  arms  about  her. 

"Darling,  I  hate  them.  I  won't  have  anything  to 
do  with  them.     I  love  you,  and  only  you.     I'll  stay 


The  Epoch  91 

with  you,  always."  The  incoherent  passion  in  the 
trembling  young  voice  reached  to  the  icy  band  about 
Mrs.  Tudor's  heart,  warmed  it,  melted  it. 

She  drew  Anne's  head  to  her  breast  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  the  silky  black  hair. 

"Oh,  my  littlest,"  she  murmured,  changing  sud- 
denly. "Matters  have  been  taken  out  of  our  hands 
now.  The  Fates  are  spinning,  my  Anne,  and  we 
cannot  control  their  design.  You  are  a  Tudor,  you 
know,  in  spite  of  us." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  say  «5,"  cried  Anne.  "I  feel 
as  if  I  were  only  your  child,  mother." 

"I  have  felt  that  for  so  long  that  the  awakening  is 
a  bitter  one,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  stroking  the  girl's  hair. 
' '  What  was  it  that  Nancy  called  you  ?  '  A  young  Tudor 
sapling. '  Well,  my  Anne,  all  you  can  do  is  to  see  that 
you  grow  into  a  straight  and  beautiful  tree." 

The  door  behind  them  opened  abruptly. 

"And  is  it  all  in  the  dark  you  are?"  Sabina's  voice 
cut  roughly  across  the  sweetness  of  their  renewed 
intimacy.  "Of  all  things  best  calculated  to  bring  on 
the  melancholies  commend  me  to  sitting  in  the  dark ! ' ' 

"It  is  time  that  you  brought  the  light,  Sabina. 
We  want  it  badly,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  with  a  curious 
little  emphasis  that  Anne,  in  her  tense  state  of  re- 
ceptivity, was  quick  to  note. 

The  light?  It  seemed  to  the  girl  as  if  a  blinding 
glare  had  already  been  let  in  upon  very  dark  places. 


VI 


Spring  came  dancing  to  London  after  that;  to  pipe 
of  March  wind  and  tabret  of  April  rain. 


92  Drifting  Waters 

His  touch  sent  "green  fire"  leaping  from  bough  to 
naked  bough,  from  twig  to  slender  twig  of  each  winter- 
blackened  tree;  set  flames  a-quiver  in  the  quickening 
grass,  from  early  tongues  of  crocus  to  daffodils'  lusty 
gold  and  the  sunset  flares  of  azaleas,  delicately  passion- 
ate; split  pools  of  bluebells,  azure  as  wood-flames,  in 
every  sheltered  park  coppice;  ran  a  green  haze  over 
trailing  creeper-stems  that  erst  hung  barren;  set  the 
crystal  flute-notes  of  each  wise  thrush  and  blackbird- 
Chrysostom  in  tune  with  his  own  irresistible  melody. 

Wind-song,  bird-song,  and  delicate  throbbing  pat- 
ter awoke  fluttering  pulses  in  Anne,  which  the  magic 
of  flowers,  the  riot  of  wing,  the  springing  eternal 
youth  of  the  world  around  her  set  dancing  hourly. 

The  days  sped  in  a  dream  towards  the  goal  of  her 
promised  visit.  It  was  a  dream  shot  with  hopes  and 
fears,  with  tremors  and  curiosities,  even  with  faint 
repulsions  now  and  then;  yet  endued  above  all  with 
an  irresistible  impulsion  towards  the  unknown. 

It  was  as  if  a  new  Anne  had  been  awakened  on  the 
memorable  day  of  her  aunt's  visit ;  an  Anne  who  had 
put  away  childish  things  for  the  nonce;  an  Anne 
who  still  stood  without  the  opening  gate,  but  who 
wanted  to  see,  perhaps  to  shake  a  little,  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge  for  herself.  An  Anne  as  eternally  old, 
as  eternally  new  as  questing  Eve  in  the  first  green 
garden. 

If  an  apple  should  roll  to  her  feet — her  thoughts  did 
not  venture  yet  as  far  as  the  forbidden  fruit.  Had 
they  done  so,  her  mental  tapestry  was  crowded  with 
figures  wrought  for  warning. 

A  woman  and  an  apple. 

Fatal  alliance,  from  Eden  days  to  the  tempting  of 


The  Epoch  93 

Atalanta,  and  the  judgment  of  Shepherd  Paris  upon 
the  goddess-haunted  mountain. 

Anne  felt  a  sense  of  shame  at  times  at  the  thought 
that  any  unshared  joy  should  give  her  pleasure;  and 
the  knowledge  that  this  promised  visit  held  visionary 
delights  for  her,  while  for  her  mother  it  meant  loneli- 
ness, peopled  with  a  host  of  creeping  doubts  and  fears, 
gave  her  her  first  real  taste  of  the  bitter-sweet  of  life. 

"Must  one  always  pay  for  everything?"  she  won- 
dered vaguely.  "And  if  I  pay  by  having  qualms  at 
going  shouldn't  that  be  enough?  Why  must  mother 
pay  too?" 

It  was  all  very  puzzling. 

More  than  once  Anne  had  offered  to  stay  at  home, 
but  Mrs.  Tudor  would  not  hear  of  it.  It  was  as  if 
her  feet  were  now  set  upon  a  path  in  which  there  was 
to  be  neither  turning  nor  returning.  She  gave  Anne 
little  or  no  advice  as  to  her  demeanour.  She  trusted 
to  the  girl's  instinct,  and  wisely. 

"Just  be  yourself,"  she  said  once.  "You  are 
going  into  a  stronghold  of  Tudors.  Don't  let  your 
individuality  be  swamped." 

She  looked  at  Anne  curiously  for  a  moment.  "  You 
have  plenty  of  it  I  think,  Anne.  You're  not  a  chame- 
leon." 

Anne  laughed.  "I  wonder?"  she  said  musingly. 
"I've  often  thought  that  people  must  of  necessity 
take  some  colour  from  their  surroundings." 

"You  ought  to  be  dull  and  drab  in  that  case." 

"Mother!"  cried  Anne,  deeply  hurt. 

"Why,  silly  child?  Sabina  was  right.  What 
colour  is  there  in  your  life,  after  all?" 

"You!"  cried  Anne  passionately. 


94  Drifting  Waters 

The  look  in  the  grey  eyes  smote  Margaret  Tudor. 
So  once  had  darker  eyes  flamed  into  hers.  She  turned 
away. 

"A  burnt  out  fire.  White  ashes,"  she  said,  trying 
to  speak  lightly.  Then,  after  a  long  pause.  "You 
can  trust  Robert  Egerton,  Anne.  He  might  be  a 
good  friend  to  you." 

"Can't  I  trust  Aunt  Nancy?"  Anne  hid  her  face 
against  her  mother  as  she  spoke  that  she  might  not 
see  how  her  cheek  burned  at  the  question. 

"Ye — es,  I  think  so.  The  Tudors  are  very  loyal 
to  one  another.  They  are  curiously  clannish.  The 
King  can  do  no  wrong.  Oh,  yes,  they  do  stick  to- 
gether. They  think  no  one  like  each  other.  They 
are  rather  overpowering  when  they  get  together 
with  their  jokes,  their  catchwords,  their  nicknames, 
their  conquering  ways.  Once — I  liked  it.  Now — " 
she  stopped. 

Anne  did  not  venture  to  question,  but  listened 
breathlessly. 

"Your  grandmother,  old  Mrs.  Tudor — Madam, 
they  always  called  her — never  forgave  me  for  di- 
vorcing— your  father."  She  could  not  force  herself 
to  utter  his  name. 

"Never  forgave  you  ?"  Anne  gasped. 

"Never  forgave  me.  For  the  disgrace  I  brought 
upon  their  name."  Mrs.  Tudor  gave  a  queer  little 
laugh. 

"The  disgrace  you  brought!  Oh,  mother,  how 
unfair!" 

"Women  are  seldom  fair — to  other  women.  He — 
was  her  favourite  son." 

"Is  she  alive?" 


The  Epoch  95 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  I  never  heard  to 
the  contrary." 

"I  hope  I  shan't  see  her." 

"You  are  not  likely  to.  .  .  .  She  would  see  more  of 
me  than  of  him  in  you,  I  think,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  I  hope  so,"  the  girl  breathed 
fervently. 

Yet  despite  all  she  was  conscious  of  an  undercur- 
rent which  drew  her,  drew  her  imperceptibly  towards 
her  little  persistent  merry  Aunt  Nancy. 

"Mother,  can  a  person  stop  being  married  if  she 
wishes?"  Anne  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"Stop  being  married?"  echoed  Mrs.  Tudor,  bitterly. 
"I  should  think  not.  Why,  even  divorce,  which 
legally  sets  one  at  liberty,  doesn't  really  free  you. 
Nothing  frees  you.  Once  you  are  married  you  are 
married  for  ever.  It  is  an  indissoluble  bond.  He — 
your  husband — seals  you — for  all  time — his."  She 
put  her  hand  across  her  eyes  and  shivered.  Then 
she  looked  up  and  said  with  quick  petulance:  "But 
why  do  you  ask  these  questions,  Anne?  I  thought  I 
forbade  you  to  torment  me  with  them." 

"I  am  sorry,  mother.  I  forgot.  Indeed  I  didn't 
mean  to  torment  you.  It  was  only — something 
Sabina  said." 

Mrs.  Tudor  sighed.  "You  are  too  much  with 
Sabina.  After  all,  she  is  an  ignorant,  uneducated 
woman.  They  are  all  horribly  right.  It  is  time  that 
you  should  see  something  of  the  world  outside  your 
own  groove.  Give  me  my  writing-case.  I  must 
write  to  Liberty's  about  your  frocks." 

Anne  fetched  the  purple  leather  case  and  watched 
her  mother's  thin  white  fingers  cover  the  paper  with 


96  Drifting  Waters 

nervous  black  writing.  She  waited  to  lick  the  stamp 
and  the  envelope,  the  very  thought  of  which  always 
made  Mrs.  Tudor  shudder. 

"I  don't  mind  the  taste  a  bit,"  Anne  declared. 

"It  isn't  the  taste,  it's  the  whole  thing,"  said  her 
mother.  "I  don't  know  how  you  can.  You  may 
take  this  to  the  letter-box  yourself.  It's  only  a  step, 
and  it  is  quite  light.     Nothing  can  happen  to  you." 

To  make  such  an  assertion  is  quite  enough  to  pro- 
voke the  tricksy  Fates.  As  Anne  was  returning  from 
her  uneventful  journey  to  the  pillar-box  someone  who 
was  wheeling  a  bicycle  with  a  punctured  tire  over- 
took and  greeted  her.  It  was  Dr.  Waldron,  tall  and 
lanky,  looking  a  little  hot,  a  little  tired,  but,  she  was 
thankful  to  note,  without  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 

"So  you  are  leaving  us,  Miss  Anne,"  he  began  with- 
out preamble.  "Going  to  the  country,  rose-gather- 
ing, I  presume." 

Anne  laughed  a  shade  self-consciously.  "It  is  a 
little  too  early  for  that,  I  think." 

"The  change  will  be  good  for  you,  but  bad  for  us. 
Caroline  Place  will  be  lonely  without  you." 

"Oh,  no,"  Anne  protested. 

"Oh,  yes.  Miss  Anne.  'Twill  be  a  lifeless  place. 
You  keep  us  all  young." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Anne  again. 

"Indeed  you  do.  Miss  Anne,"  he  persisted. 

Anne  wished  that  he  would  not  call  her  Miss  Anne, 
but  she  did  not  want  him  to  use  her  Christian  name 
pure  and  simple,  and  the  youthfulness  to  which  he 
alluded  prevented  her  from  claiming  the  more  mature 
title. 

"Your  mother  will  miss  you." 


The  Epoch  97 

"I'm  afraid  she  will." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  take  a  look  in  at  her 
occasionally?" 

Anne  hesitated,  flushing  a  little.  She  did  not 
imagine  for  an  instant  that  her  mother  would  welcome 
even  a  fleeting  visit  from  Dr.  Waldron  unasked,  but 
she  could  not  say  so. 

Noting  the  swift  colour  that  ran  over  the  whiteness 
of  her  face  Dr.  Waldron  hastily  added,  with  a  clumsy 
effort  at  tact: 

"I  mean  as  a  friend,  of  course,  not  professionally." 

' '  You  are  very  kind, ' '  Anne  blurted.  ' '  Good-bye. ' ' 
She  held  out  her  hand. 

Dr.  Waldron  took  it. 

"Then  I  shan't  see  you  again,"  he  said,  still  holding 
it. 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  suppose  so.  I'm 
going  to  Hampshire  on  Wednesday." 

"I  hope  you'll  have  a  good  time.  You're  sure  to. 
But  don't  let  them  change  you,  whatever  happens, 
Miss  Anne.  You're  just  right  as  you  are."  He  wrung 
her  hand  with  awkward  earnestness,  then  dropped  it. 

Anne  smiled  at  him  as  she  ran  up  the  steps,  tinged 
with  a  new  consciousness. 

"There  goes  something  rare  and  fine,"  thought  Dr. 
Waldron,  wheeling  his  dejected  bicycle  to  his  own 
home.  "It  will  be  a  lucky  fellow  who  wins  her  some 
day." 

Then  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder 
if,  by  any  chance,  he  himself  might  wear  that  lucky 
fellow's  shoes! 

7 


PART  II 
BLOSSOM 


99 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  TUDORS 


MRS.  EGERTON  sat  up  very  straight  among  the 
grey  cushions  of  her  new  car.  Clouds  of  chiffon 
swathed  her  alertly-poised  head ;  her  black  eyes  danced 
in  a  face  made  nervously  vivid  with  emotion. 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  the  hands  that  lay  on 
her  lap,  pulled  up  the  rug,  fumbled  aimlessly  with 
the  door  handle,  rubbing  its  brightness  unnecessarily 
with  one  su^de-gloved  finger. 

The  car  purred  as  it  sped  along  the  road,  which 
curved  like  a  yellow  ribbon  through  pinewoods  dark 
against  a  brilliantly  blue  sky.  Here  and  there  the 
tasselled  beauty  of  young  larches  stood  out  vividly 
against  the  sadder  green  of  the  other  trees.  The 
sunlight  glinted  on  flash  of  wing,  on  trickle  of  stream, 
but  the  humming  of  the  car  in  its  speed  muffled  the 
lesser  sounds  of  the  spring  day. 

"I  wish  I  could  hum  like  the  car,"  said  Mrs.  Eger- 
ton,  turning  a  bright,  excited  face  to  her  companion, 
"but  alas,  I've  got  no  voice.  We're  not  musical,  as 
a  family.  I've  no  means  of  working  off  excitement 
except  by  teasing  people,  Bobbady,  for  choice." 

lOI 


I02  Drifting  Waters 

"Tease  me  to  your  heart's  content,"  answered 
Richard  Assheton,  with  lazy  amusement  at  her 
sparkle. 

Richard  was  her  husband's  nephew  and  her  own 
devoted  friend;  and  of  the  worid  outside  the  Tudors 
she  loved  him  next  to  her  Robert. 

There  was  nothing  at  all  remarkable  about  Richard 
Assheton.  He  was  just  twenty-three,  of  clean, 
straight  line,  rather  over  than  under  the  average 
height.  His  hair  was  brown,  with  a  tendency  to  curl, 
which  he  did  his  best  to  subdue ;  his  nose  was  straight ; 
his  eyes  were  dark  blue  and  twinkled,  and  his  mouth 
had  a  humorous  tilt  at  one  corner.  There  were 
latent  possibilities  in  his  face — a  hint  of  power,  a  hint 
of  reserve,  more  than  a  hint  of  idealism.  It  was  a 
young  face,  even  for  twenty-three  years.  The  burden 
of  manhood  lay  lightly  upon  his  shoulders ;  the  young 
dreamer  was  still  in  his  dream,  wrapped  warmly  in  a 
gift  of  comfortable  silence. 

Every  woman  voted  him  a  dear,  and  wondered  if 
he  were  really  the  Endymion  that  he  seemed. 

The  verdict  of  his  own  sex  was  that  he  was  a  queer 
sort  of  chap,  but  "all  right." 

He  was  light-heartedly  pursuing  his  degree  in 
medicine  through  the  tortuous  ways  of  examinations 
and  hospitals,  and  now  the  goal  was  almost  within 
sight. 

"Imagine  any  sane  person  employing  me  as  their 
doctor! "  he  said  once  to  his  Aunt  Nancy.  "A  vagrom 
man  like  me!  I  should  be  ever  so  much  happier 
whistling  along  the  road  with  my  bundle  on  my  shoul- 
der, just  setting  the  broken  legs  of  any  stray  dogs  I 
happened  to  find  by  the  wayside." 


^  The  Tudors  103 

"You'll  always  find  stray  dogs  wherever  you  go, 
Ricky,"  she  made  answer.  "The  world  is  full  of 
them,  and  I  believe  they'll  gravitate  naturally  towards 
you." 

"Some  day  I  may  find  a  stray  dog  of  a  millionaire, 
and  then  my  fortune  will  be  made,"  he  declared. 
"They  are  wary  beasts,  I  believe,  but  I'll  tame  mine 
until  he  comes  and  eats  out  of  my  hand." 

"First  catch  yotu*  millionaire,"  his  aunt  advised 
significantly. 

Today  her  mind  was  filled  with  one  thought  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  else:  the  coming  of  Anne,  Anne 
by  herself. 

The  girl  had  made  instant  appeal  to  her.  In  Anne 
she  seemed  to  reap  the  harvest  of  a  hundred  memories. 
The  clan  instinct  surged  irresistibly.  She  thought  of 
her  brother  Godfrey,  his  careless  gaiety,  his  tricks, 
his  wilfulness,  his  constant  need  of  her!  What  good 
company  he  had  been!  What  fun  they  had  had  to- 
gether! How  quick  he  and  she  had  always  been  to 
cap  each  other's  jokes!  In  Anne,  despite  the  child's 
half-conscious  withdrawal,  she  had  discerned  a  flash 
of  that  old-time  sympathy.  Of  her  three  brothers 
he  had  always  been  the  nearest;  with  all  his  faults  he 
was  the  dearest  still.  The  breath  that  condemned 
condoned  before  its  expiration.  Once  a  Tudor  always 
a  Tudor.  She  loved  her  husband,  but  with  a  difference. 
The  call  of  the  blood  was  strongest  of  all  Had 
the  need  arisen  she  would  have  set  Robert  definitely 
on  one  side  to  respond  to  a  Tudor  claim.  After  all, 
he  was  only  an  Egerton! 

Something  of  thwarted  motherhood,  too,  doubtless 
coloured  her  joy  in  Anne's  solitary  coming,  the  delight 


104  Drifting  Waters 

of  having  her  all  to  herself — "her  young  Tudor  sap- 
ling"— to  pet,  to  play  with,  to  tease,  to  spoil.  Nancy 
Egerton  had  never  quite  lost  her  child's  love  of  play 
of  skimming  over  the  deeps  of  life  and  pretending 
that  they  were  the  shallows.  In  Anne  she  anticipated 
a  new  playmate,  perhaps  a  new  devotee.  As  Mar- 
garet Tudor  had  crudely  hinted,  the  smell  of  incense 
was  sweet  in  her  nostrils.  Yet  withal,  the  Fairy  God- 
mother had  not  forgotten  to  bestow  a  modicum  of 
commonsense  upon  her  at  her  christening,  and  those 
who  counted  upon  her  thistledown  lightness  were 
often  confounded  by  some  sudden  rapier-flash  of 
native  shrewdness. 

She  turned  for  sympathy  to  Richard,  her  constant 
confidant.  In  spite  of  the  difference  in  their  years  a 
strong  sjTiipathy  existed  between  them.  It  did  not 
matter  what  one  said  to  Ricky,  she  felt.  He  under- 
stood and  was  never  shocked.  With  Robert  there 
was  a  certain  standard  to  be  observed,  the  occasional 
consciousness  of  a  pedestal.  She  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  be  petty  or  catty  before  Robert,  but  Ricky 
was  different.  He  was  young,  and  unexacting  and 
extraordinarily  understanding  for  a  mere  male.  For 
him  she  was  poised  upon  no  pedestal  other  than  an 
eminence  of  charm  from  which  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  dislodge  her. 

"Between  ourselves  it  is  a  distinct  relief  to  think 
that  Margot  isn't  coming,"  she  confided,  bright-eyed. 
"I  did  my  best  to  persuade  her.  I  was  in  earnest, 
too.  You  needn't  laugh,  Ricky.  I  was  indeed. 
But  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  Anne  is 
coming  by  herself." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  returned  Richard  deliberately. 


The  Tudors  105 

"I  should  like  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Tudor.  Young  girls 
are  uninteresting  things.  They  have  such  smooth 
round  faces.  I  like  faces  that  have  things  written 
on  them." 

"Poor  Margot  has  plenty  written  on  hers.  Oh, 
she's  an  unhappy,  relentless  creature!  I  am  sorry 
for  her,  but  she's  impossible  to  get  at.  She's  like  ice. 
Cold  and  aloof;  nothing  you  can  lay  hold  of.  Then, 
if  you  break  it,  it's  sharp  and  cuts.     You  know." 

Richard  nodded.  "She  was  badly  hurt  herself 
once.     Don't  forget  that,  Nancy." 

"I  don't  forget  it,  and  it's — oh — terrible  to  think 
that  a  Tudor  should  have  done  it.  But  she  ought  to 
have  known  Godfrey,  his  temperament,  the  absurd 
attraction  women  always  had  for  him.  She  went  the 
wrong  way  about  it.  An  older  woman,  a  wiser  woman, 
might  have  read  him  better,  might  have  been  more 
generous,  might  have  forgiven,  and  so  drawn  him  to 
her  for  ever  after." 

"That's  a  long  time,  and  a  rash  statement  to  make 
of  any  man,  especially  one  of — dare  I  add  the  magic 
name  of  Tudor  to  your  tactful  word  temperament?" 
he  asked  with  a  whimsical  glance. 

Mrs.  Egerton  frowned,  then  smiled.  "You're 
always  making  fun  of  us,  Ricky." 

"You're  a  peculiar  people,  Nancy.  There's  no 
denying  that  fact.  Confess  now.  You  have  one 
law  for  the  Tudors,  and  one  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.     Haven't  you  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  Well,  perhaps,"  she  admitted. 
"We're  clannish,  and  we  understand  each  other. 
That's  all." 

"A  fairly  big  all,  when  everything's  said  and  done." 


io6  Drifting  Waters 

Mrs.  Egerton  made  a  little  face  expressive  of  much; 
then  flitted  back  to  her  original  topic. 

"Well,  Ricky,  as  you  pity  Margot  and  condemn 
Godfrey" — Richard's  eyebrows  went  up  to  his  hair, 
but  he  maintained  a  discreet  silence — "I  want  you 
to  be  nice  to  that  poor  child." 

"How  am  I  to  be  nice  to  a  fledgling?  Sixteen, 
seventeen,  I  think  you  said.  Is  she  a  modem  flapper, 
and  will  she  expect  me  to  flap  too?" 

"Heavens,  no!"  cried  his  aunt.  "Anne  does  not 
know  how  to  flap.  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
her.  She  is  much  more  like  a  person  out  of  a  fairy- 
tale— one  who  has  been  mewed  up  in  a  turret  for 
years — that  sort  of  thing.  I  only  want  you  to  help 
me  to  teach  her  to  be  young,  and  foolish,  and  frivolous. 
In  a  word  to  play.  I  don't  believe  she  has  ever 
played  with  any  one  approaching  her  own  age.  Think 
of  that!" 

"She'll  have  you  now.  I  admit  I  am  a  little  old, 
but  I'm  sure  I  can  be  as  foolish  as  you  wish." 

"You  can.  But  I'm  serious  now,  Ricky.  I've 
been  seeing  her  ever  since,  the  slim,  quaint  thing  with 
her  black  plaits,  and  her  big  eyes  devouring  us  both! 
Her  devotion  to  poor,  bitter  Margot,  and  her  half- 
liking,  half -disapproval  of  me!  It  was  pathetic, 
Ricky.  Think  of  her,  all  these  years  cooped  up  with 
tragedy.  No  fun,  no  real  youth.  No  little  jokes. 
It  makes  my  heart  ache.  Doesn't  it  yours?  And 
Margot  with  her  burning  eyes,  and  that  horrible  bird 
on  her  shoulder  chuckling  into  her  ear  like  a  witch's 
familiar!  I  longed  to  snatch  the  child  out  of  it 
there  and  then,  and  plant  her  down  in  the  middle 
of  a  green  field,  and  tell  her  to  make  daisy  chains, 


The  Tudors  107 

and  not  to  utter  a  word  of  sense  from  morning 
till  night." 

Mrs.  Egerton  paused  for  breath. 

"This  is  instructive  as  well  as  interesting,"  Richard 
remarked.  "I  am  glad  that  I  arrived  in  time  to  be 
taken  to  the  station." 

"I  knew  I  could  depend  on  you,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton 
triumphantly.  Then,  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of  her 
thought,  one,  which  reflection  would  certainly  have 
held  back,  slipped  out  hotfoot  ahead  of  its  fellows. 
"Ricky,  it  is  my  dearest  wish  that  some  day  you 
should  marry  Anne." 

Instantly  she  saw  her  mistake. 

Richard's  eyes  opened  wide.  He  drew  back  abashed 
into  his  corner,  shrinking,  it  seemed,  from  both  sug- 
gestion and  suggester.     Then  he  laughed. 

"You're  a  very  charming  woman,  Nancy,  but  a 
dashed  bad  diplomatist." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  diplomatist,"  she  recovered  herself 
quickly.  "I've  never  needed  to  be  one.  I  just  let 
things  happen." 

"Say  that  you  were  joking  about  this,"  ordered 
Richard  suspiciously. 

"Of  course,  silly  boy.  It  just  came  into  my  head 
and  I  said  it.  You  know  me,  and  how  I  blurt  things 
out.     That's  Tudor." 

"I  hate  jokes  about  marriage,  anyhow." 

"They  are  in  bad  taste,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton  coax- 
ingly,  knowing  in  her  inmost  heart  that  nothing  that 
she  had  ever  said  had  been  more  remotely  removed 
from  jest. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  marry,"  Richard  pursued, 
looking  at  the  scudding  clouds. 


io8  Drifting  Waters 

"Of  course  not.  Men  never  do — until  they  meet — 
well,  I  can't  say  the  right  woman,  can  I?  For  they 
generally  seem  to  marry  the  wrong  ones." 

"That's  why." 

"Well,  be  careful  that  the  future  Mrs.  Ricky  is  the 
right  woman,"  she  returned,  glad  to  be  on  easy  ground 
again. 

Once  more  she  seemed  to  feel  Richard  shrinking. 

"Don't  you  like  women,  Ricky?"  she  asked 
curiously. 

"I  love  them,"  he  declared  at  once.  Then  with  a 
sort  of  boyish  desperation  he  added:  "As  pals,  I  mean. 
I — I  don't  want  them  to  come  any  closer.  I — myself 
— I'd  rather  be — private  somehow.  Oh,  what  rot  I'm 
talking!  Nancy,  it's  your  fault.  You  make  me  feel 
an  ass  as  well  as  a  prig." 

She  laughed,  looked  tactfully  away  from  his 
uncomfortably  reddened  face. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said  softly.  "You 
want  to  belong  to  yourself,  to  give  no  one  any  closer 
rights,  to  be  private,  as  you  say." 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  she  said,  as  the  car  drew  up 
outside  the  neat  red  railway  station  of  Trenton  Ab- 
bott. "The  signal's  down.  We're  just  in  time.  No, 
don't  come  in,  Ricky.  It  might  only  make  the  child 
shy  to  see  a  stranger." 

She  gave  Richard's  hand  a  little  squeeze  as  he 
helped  her  out  of  the  car. 

"  I  talk  a  lot  of  nonsense,  don't  I?"  she  said  lightly. 
Her  eyes  searched  his  face  for  an  instant. 

"You  do,"  he  assented,  "but  on  the  whole " 

"Oh,  don't  be  pedantic!     On  the  whole,  you  were 


The  Tudors  109 

about  to  remark,  I  shall  probably  have  my  hands  full 
with  my  wicked  Godfrey's  child." 

"Probably.  Any  new  Tudor  is  an  unknown 
quantity.  There's  a  good  deal  of  gun-cotton  in  the 
Tudor  composition." 

"Gun-cotton?" — she  raised  delicate  brows, 

"  Gun-cotton,  my  dear  Nancy,  contains  the  elements 
of  a  very  pretty  combustion " 

A  train  whistle  cut  the  air.  Mrs.  Egerton  fluttered 
towards  the  doorway,  her  chiffon  veil  floating  out 
behind  her  like  a  grey  mist. 

"Oh,  you  and  your  gun-cotton,"  she  flung  at  him 
as  she  went. 

Richard  smiled  at  her  little  grey  back.  Despite 
his  disclaimer  he  felt  in  his  inmost  heart  a  chivalrous 
pity  and  a  distinct  interest  in  Anne.  The  circum- 
stances of  her  life,  as  he  had  pieced  them  together 
from  fragments  of  family  talk,  engaged  his  fancy. 
Like  Sabina,  he  wondered  if  there  were  a  black  streak 
somewhere  in  her  composition.  He  shrank  fastidi- 
ously from  his  aunt's  tentative  suggestion.  Marry 
a  Tudor,  daughter  of  the  redoubtable  Godfrey,  whom 
he  had  never  seen,  but  whom  he  always  instinctively 
longed  to  kick  ?     Repellent  thought ! 

Round  the  very  inmost  Richard  whom  nobody  had 
ever  seen  (save,  in  rare  moments,  his  mother)  he  had 
built,  as  do  many  Irishmen,  a  strong  wall  of  defence. 
It  was  a  pleasant  wall,  so  tufted  and  overgrown  with 
fair  and  fragrant  qualities  that  no  one  suspected  it 
to  be  a  wall  at  all.  His  friends  looked  upon  it  as  an 
open  garden,  but  hidden  underneath  the  whimsical 
growths  was  a  tiny  postern  gate  to  which  no  one  as 
yet  possessed  the  key.     There  Richard  kept  his  dreams 


no  Drifting  Waters 

his  ideals:  there,  unknown  even  to  himself,  the  starry 
silvery  shrine  for  the  one  woman  who  owned  the  key. 
She  might  never  come,  but  Richard  would  never  open 
to  another.  He  would  not  open  to  her  either.  She 
would  just  have  to  slip  the  key  into  the  lock  herself 
and  walk  straight  in.  Once  there  he  would  never 
dislodge  her.  So  closely  he  held  his  secret  self  that 
oneness  with  it  was  for  all  time. 

He  was  unaware  of  this.  He  would  have  mocked 
at  the  sentiment  of  the  idea.  His  sole  expression  of 
any  consciousness  of  such  an  ideal,  such  a  secrecy, 
was  crystallized  in  the  awkward  boyish  phrase:  "I'd 
rather  be  private,  somehow." 

Nancy  Egerton  had  walked  all  round  the  wall 
and  thought  she  knew  her  Richard  through  and 
through.  He  did  not  undeceive  her.  He  cherished 
his  privacy. 

There  was  a  little  bustle  of  arrival.  One  or  two 
people  filtered  through  the  railway  gate.  A  porter 
propelled  a  truck  with  a  green  trunk  and  hat  box 
bearing  the  initials  A.  W.  T.  in  bold  black  letters. 
After  him  came  Mrs.  Egerton  and  Anne,  who  wore  a 
green  coat  and  carried  a  green  leather  dressing-bag. 

"Green  is  the  fairies'  colour,"  thought  Richard,  as 
he  saw  the  tall  slim  figure  beside  his  little  aunt. 

There  seemed  to  him  to  be  something  rather  elfin 
and  remote  about  this  new  Tudor  with  the  small  white 
face  and  long  black  plaits.  All  the  fairy-tales  of  an 
elf-strewn  childhood  rushed  through  his  mind  at  sight 
of  her.  He  could  quite  understand  why  she  should 
be  Anne  and  the  older  woman  Nancy.  It  was  a 
summing-up  in  little. 

"Anne,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  her  hand  on  the  girl's 


The  Tudors  '  iii 

arm,  "this  is  Richard  Assheton,  a  nephew  of  mine, 
but  no  relation  whatsoever  of  yours." 

"Nancy,  that's  not  fair,"  cried  Richard.  "Why 
should  you  cut  me  off  from  relationship  in  the  very 
first  blush  of  our  acquaintance?  Don't  you  know  dear 
old  Euclid's  axiom?" — he  turned  to  Anne.  "'Things 
which  are  equal  to  the  same  thing  are  equal  to  one 
another.'  If  you  and  I  are  equal  to  Nancy — some- 
thing I  rather  doubt  from  a  personal  point  of  view; 
still  for  the  sake  of  argument  we'll  let  it  stand — we 
ought  to  be  equal  to  one  another.     Are  we  ?  I  wonder  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Egerton  brushed  him  aside.  "She  won't  be 
equal  to  anything  until  she's  had  her  tea.  Do  stop 
talking  nonsense,  Ricky,  and  see  that  Simmons  has 
put  her  luggage  in  the  car." 

"I  can  see  that  already  by  using  only  one  eye," 
answered  Richard  without  moving. 

Anne  smiled  as  he  seated  himself  opposite  her. 
After  the  rather  bewildering  novelty  of  the  journey, 
with  all  its  unaccustomed  sights,  experiences,  and 
noises,  the  translation  to  the  quiet  countryside  and 
this  atmosphere  of  pleasant  friendliness  was  exhilarat- 
ing as  well  as  refreshing. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  Waterloo  the 
vision  of  her  mother's  drawn  face,  of  her  fiercely 
clinging  arms,  faded  from  the  primary  sharpness  with 
which  it  had  been  etched  upon  her  young  mind,  taking 
with  it  some  of  the  sense  of  guilt  which  had  dulled 
the  edge  of  her  eager  anticipations. 

Here  was  wonderful  quiet  and  springing  greenness : 
a  real  quiet,  an  intense  greenness  to  which  London 
at  her  freshest  or  stillest  never  attains. 

"I  believe  I  could  hear  things  growing,"  she  said 


112  Drifting  Waters 

suddenly  as  they  sped  along.  "If  only  the  car  would 
stop." 

"Do  you  want  it  to  stop?"  asked  Mrs.  Egerton 
watching  her  changing  face. 

"No,  no,  oh  no,"  murmured  Anne,  rather  overcome 
at  finding  that  she  had  spoken  her  thought  aloud. 
"I  love  the  feeling  of  rushing  through  the  air  like 
this." 

"You  can  hear  things  growing  another  time,"  said 
her  aunt.  "Perhaps  if  you  are  very  good  Ricky  will 
take  you  with  him  next  time  he  goes  fishing.  Will 
you,  Ricky?" 

"How  good  must  I  be?"  asked  Anne,  looking  gaily 
from  one  to  the  other. 

Richard  pondered.  Anne  thought  that  he  had  the 
nicest  face  she  had  ever  seen.  His  eyes  twinkled 
like  Dr.  Waldron's,  only  they  were  much  nicer  eyes 
and  had  longer  lashes.  His  mouth  twinkled  too. 
She  wished  that  he  was  a  real  cousin  of  hers.  She 
didn't  think  that  he  belonged  yet  altogether  to  the 
Big  People.     When  he  spoke  she  knew. 

"It  isn't  so  much  a  question  of  goodness  as  quiet- 
ness," he  said,  "and  I  think  that  there  is  reasonable 
ground  for  assumption  that  any  descendant  of  our 
old  friend  Fine-Ear,  who  can  sit  still  enough  to  hear 
the  green  things  of  the  Lord  growing,  possesses  the 
necessary  amount  of  that  requisite  to  enable  him  or 
her  to  claim  that  proud  privilege." 

"Which  means,  darling,  translated  into  ordinary 
English,  that  he  will." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Anne  happily. 

Her  eyes  feasted  on  all  the  country  marvels  as  they 
sped  past:  the  delicate  verdure  of  the  larches,  the 


The  Tudors  113 

fantastic  branches  of  whitethorn  silhouetted  against 
the  dark  woodland,  the  stretches  of  moor,  the  spring- 
ing ferns,  the  red  roofed  cottages,  the  trails  of  geese 
beside  a  pond,  the  yellow  ducklings  near  a  yard  gate, 
the  leaping,  frisking  lambs  in  the  fields. 

Richard  studied  her  rapt  face,  her  ever-growing 
wonder  and  delight.  It  seemed  to  him  that  never  had 
he  seen  such  transparency.  Every  passing  emotion 
seemed  to  find  its  reflex  there.  Curiously  he  echoed 
Margaret  Tudor's  feeling  of  relief.  The  dark  streak 
had  not  yet  flawed  its  crystalline  clearness.  Here  was 
a  young  growing  thing,  seeing  the  world  in  all  its 
wonder  and  beauty.  Here  was  a  spirit  sensitive  to 
every  passing  gleam  or  shade.  Suddenly  his  pity 
welled.  How  such  a  spirit  would  suffer  in  its  contact 
with  the  world's  roughness!  He  seemed  to  see  her 
exquisitely  aloof,  strange,  sensitive,  fastidious.  The 
"round,  smooth  face,"  of  girlhood  was  not  so  uninter- 
esting after  all.  If  "things"  were  not  already  written 
upon  it  they  were  foreshadowed.  He  drew  a  long 
breath.     Catching  her  glance  he  leaned  forward. 

"You  spell  it  with  an  'e'?"  he  asked. 

"What?" 

"Your  name." 

"Of  course,"  Anne  nodded. 

"Of  course,"  he  echoed.  "Ann  without  the  'e' 
is  like  a  Manx  cat!" 

Anne  laughed.  Never  had  she  been  wafted  on 
such  wings  of  delight.  The  swift  sense  of  well-being 
that  had  enwrapped  her  with  Aunt  Nancy's  embrace 
still  enveloped  her.  It  was  as  if  she  had  folded  her 
in  a  cloak  which  clung  too  closely  for  any  wind  to 
blow  it  away.  Love  she  had  known  in  abundance 
s 


114  Drifting  Waters 

all  her  life,  her  mother's,  fierce,  jealous,  exacting, 
Sabina's  rougher  tenderness,  the  calm  fondness  of 
Miss  Carmichael,  and  the  affectionate  interest  of  M. 
du  Savenay;  but  this  was  love  with  a  difference. 
There  was  a  queer  feeling  within  her  that  at  last  she 
had  come  to  her  own  place,  that  this  warmth  of  wel- 
come was  hers  by  right,  that  here  she  counted,  had 
claims,  was — suddenly  knowledge  flooded  her  and 
with  it  a  burning  shame,  a  pricking  sense  of  disloyalty. 
She  felt  all  this  because  she  was  a  Tudor — "one  of 
us,"  as  her  Aunt  Nancy  had  said — one  of  the  race  who 
had  wronged  the  mother  she  adored.  Strongly  the 
blood-tie  drew  and  bound  her,  though  she  made  a 
last  faint  struggle  against  it. 

Richard  noted  the  swift  clouding  of  her  happiness, 
the  sudden  warring  of  emotions,  and  wondered  what 
had  caused  it.  So  sensitive  an  instrument  seemed  to 
respond  to  the  most  delicate  vibrations.  He  felt 
that  he  would  like  to  key  it  up  to  something  stronger, 
something  less  exquisitely  susceptible. 

The  car  turned  in  at  the  lodge  gates  of  Trent  and 
purred  softly  up  the  avenue. 

Anne  was  aware  of  a  mellow  house  of  red  old  brick,  of 
a  creeper-covered  parapet  edging  the  gravel  sweep, 
of  stone  steps  and  terraces  dropping  gently  to  a 
lake,  which  woimd  away  to  a  protecting  belt  of 
fir-trees. 

"This  is  Trent,  your  second  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Egerton  softly.  "We  will  do  our  best  to  make  you 
happy  here,  Anne." 

"Oh,  Atmt  Nancy!"  cried  the  girl,  and  could  say 
no  more. 

Richard  saw  that  her  eyes  were  brimmed  with  tears. 


The  Tudors  115 


II 


Anne  did  not  meet  her  Uncle  Robert  until  tea-time. 
The  manner  of  her  introduction  to  him  was  rather 
embarrassing.  If  she  had  but  known  it  Mrs.  Egerton 
was  famous  for  the  unconventionality  of  her  intro- 
ductions, but  all  unconsciously  she  accepted  it  as 
part  of  the  unexpectedness  and  veiled  delightfulness 
of  everything. 

Tea  was  laid  in  the  library.  A  fire  of  pine-logs 
crackled  and  spurted  in  the  grate,  its  dancing  flames 
striking  response  from  the  silver  kettle  and  the  polish 
of  the  old  blue  and  gold  tea-cups.  Daffodils  in  bowls 
and  vases  gleamed  like  splashes  of  sunshine  against 
the  brown  walls,  round  which  ran  low  bookcases, 
filled  with  a  rich  freight  of  old  volumes,  dimly  radiant 
in  Russia-leather,  calf,  and  vellum,  and  the  glinting 
bravery  of  ancient  tooling.  Persian  rugs  in  soft  dull 
blues  and  purples  lay  on  the  polished  floor.  At 
Anne's  feet  a  borzoi,  Boris,  stretched  his  aristocratic 
length,  nose  on  paws. 

She  had  just  made  his  acquaintance  and  settled 
back  in  her  chair  when  the  door  opened  to  admit  a 
tall,  stooping  figure. 

"Why,  Bobbady,  I  thought  you  were  lost!"  cried 
Mrs.  Egerton,  looking  up  from  the  teapot.  "How 
neglectful  of  you  not  to  be  here  to  welcome  your  niece ! 
Anne,  this  is  your  unnatural  Uncle  Robert.  Don't 
you  think  he  is  very  like  a  horse?  I  do  hope  you'll 
agree  with  me,  for  a  similarity  of  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  likeness  is  the  strongest  possible  bond." 

Anne  jumped  up  with  reddened  cheeks  and  held 
out  her  hand.     Aunt  Nancy's  remark  held  all  the 


ii6  Drifting  Waters 

embarrassment  of  truth.  Uncle  Robert  was  distinctly 
like  a  horse — a  nice  horse,  Anne  thought — with  his 
long,  narrow  face,  his  high  forehead,  and  his  mild 
brown  eyes. 

"Say  it,  my  dear,  and  please  her,"  said  Mr.  Egerton, 
in  a  dry  deliberate  voice.  ' '  It  amuses  her  and  does 
me  no  harm.  The  horse  is  a  noble  animal.  Possibly 
I  have  an  equine  cast  of  countenance,  although  I  have 
never  perceived  it  myself." 

"Well,  Anne?"  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  regarding  her 
blushes  with  mischievous  amusement. 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  A  very  nice  horse," 
Anne  blurted  out,  half  choking  with  confusion. 

"All  horses  are  nice,"  said  Mr.  Egerton,  patting  the 
hand  he  still  held.  "  Your  Aunt  Nancy  is  incorrigible. 
She  forgets  that  you  are  not  yet  used  to  us.  But 
talking  of  likenesses.  Dear,  dear,  how  like  your 
mother  you  are,  child!" 

Anne  looked  up  at  him  gratefully. 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  am  very  glad,"  she  said 
softly.  Here  was  a  fresh  buttress  for  her  loyalty,  a 
check  on  any  defection  to  the  Tudors. 

"Nonsense,  Bobbady,"  cried  his  wife.  "Anne  is  a 
regular  Tudor.  Look  at  her  hair,  her  mouth,  the 
setting  of  her  eyes,  the  shape  of  her  brows.  Look, 
she's  running  up  the  Tudor  flag  now.  Red  on  a  black 
and  white  ground ! " 

"Don't,  please,"  murmured  Anne,  retreating  to  her 
seat,  with  a  hand  pressed  against  a  scarlet  cheek. 
She  stooped  to  pat  Boris's  head  as  a  cover  to  confusion. 

Richard's  voice  broke  in. 

"All  this  time  we  have  never  heard  the  cause  of 
Uncle  Robert's  defection." 


The  Tudors  117 

Mr.  Egerton  began  a  detailed  account  of  a  visita- 
tion from  his  steward.  In  narration  he  had  the  air 
of  the  man  who  pauses  to  select  the  right — his  wife 
always  declared  the  longest — word,  and  in  spite  of 
her  frequent  interruptions,  thrust  irrelevantly  into  the 
midst  of  his  discourse,  he  continued  it  to  the  end,  with 
a  calm  persistence  born  of  long  years  of  patient 
perseverance. 

At  its  close  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  Anne's. 

"How  is  your  mother?"  he  asked  under  cover  of  a 
fusillade  of  chatter  between  Mrs.  Egerton  and  Richard. 
"I  was  sorry  that  she  wouldn't  come  here." 

''She  never  goes  anywhere  now,"  Anne  replied. 
"She  saw  me  off  today,  but  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  been  out  for  the  winter." 

"Is  she  an  invalid  then?" 

"No,  oh,  no.  But  she  says  that  the  cold  has  got 
into  her  bones,  and  she  is  miserable  away  from  the 
fire.     I  don't  think  I  should  have  left  her." 

"Nonsense.  Nonsense,  child.  You  cannot  sit  all 
day  by  the  fire  too.  Young  people  must  run  about 
and  see  the  world.  It  was  your  clear  duty  to  come 
here  and  cheer  us  up.  Recollect,  your  mother 
consented." 

"Ye — es,"  said  Anne,  thinking  of  the  difficult 
moment  of  choice. 

"Besides,  how  old  are  you?  Just  seventeen! 
Contemplating  the  great  plunge,  I  suppose?" 

"What  plunge?" 

"The  plunge  into  the  vortex  of  society.  In  other 
words,  coming  out." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  come  out,"  Anne 
answered  frankly.     "There's  nothing  to  come  out 


ii8  Drifting  Waters 

to.     Nothing,  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  come  out  of." 

' '  Pardon  me, ' '  said  Mr.  Egerton  politely.  ' '  There's 
your  groove  to  come  out  of.  You've  been  living 
in  a  groove,  your  aunt  tells  me — a  very  circum- 
scribed mode  of  life.  One*s  only  safeguard  is  to 
recognize  it  as  a  groove.  The  danger  is  when  one  is 
unaware." 

Anne's  eyes  danced.  "Like  the  mice  who  ran 
round  and  round  the  barn  and  squeaked,  'How  big 
the  world  is!'" 

"Precisely.  There  is  a  world  outside  the  barn  and 
a  universe  beyond  the  rut.  Your  mother  used  not  to 
be  one  of  the  mice,  Anne." 

"She  isn't  now,"  cried  Anne  quickly.  "Inside  I 
believe  she  is  really  different.  But  somehow" — 
the  girl  paused  on  a  flash  of  illumination,  then  con- 
tinued slowly — ' '  somehow,  I  think  she  is  afraid  to  go 
outside  the  bam  now,  for  fear  of  what  she'd  find  there." 

Mr.  Egerton  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them 
with  his  usual  precision. 

"Child,  you  are  too  young  to  have  found  that  out," 
he  said.     His  tone  was  very  gentle  and  kind. 

Anne  remembered  her  mother's  words.  "Robert 
Egerton  might  be  a  good  friend  to  you."  She  felt 
curiously  drawn  towards  this  quiet,  deliberate  person, 
who  had  known  her  mother  before  life,  or  the  Tudors, 
had  crushed  and  broken  her  spirit,  and  made  of  her 
the  bitter  and  resentful  woman  she  was.  Not  that 
Anne  admitted  the  bitterness  of  resentment.  Had 
she  worded  her  thought  she  would  have  framed  it 
differently. 

"Tell  me  about  my  mother  when  you  knew  her. 
What  was  she  like?"  she  asked  eagerly. 


The  Tudors  119 

Mr.  Egerton  put  on  his  glasses  again  and  looked  at 
the  upturned  face.  In  it  he  saw  mirrored  a  faint 
reflex  of  the  Margaret  Warrener  whom  he  had  known 
long  ago,  a  Margaret  steadier  perhaps,  and  sweeter, 
more  childish,  certainly  more  idealistic,  but  fired  no 
less  by  swift  and  dancing  impulse. 

"Your  mother  was  very  beautiful,"  he  answered, 
with  a  faint  sigh.  "Very  wilful,  very  impulsive,  very 
passionate.  A  veritable  piece  of  quicksilver,  Mar- 
garet was.  The  life  and  soul  of  every  gathering 
which  she  graced  by  her  presence." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  the  old-fashioned 
phrase  rang  ironically  in  Anne's  ears. 

"The  life  and  soul  of  every  gathering!"  Her 
silent,  repressed  mother!  Her  mother  whom  she  had 
seen  roused  only  to  stand,  as  it  were,  at  bay !  Oh,  the 
pity  of  it!  Why  had  none  of  these  graces  lingered? 
What  scorching  wind  had  seared  and  burned  them 
all  ?  Was  it  really  in  the  power  of  one  person  thus  to 
blight  the  whole  life  of  another  ?  Need  one  let  any  one 
else  have  such  power?  Thoughts,  strange  and  new, 
chaotic  and  disturbing,  whirled  through  the  girl's  mind. 

"It  is  diflficult  to  think  of  Margaret  as  sitting  by  a 
fire,"  the  quiet  voice  went  on.  "She  was  full  of 
activity.  She  excelled  at  all  games,  all  graces.  She 
danced  like  a  sylph.  She  and  Godfrey — "  he  stopped 
abruptly. 

"Please  go  on,"  said  Anne  in  a  low  voice.  "There 
is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  hear  anything  you 
care  to  tell." 

"I  had  nothing  particular  to  tell,  my  dear.  I  was 
only  about  to  observe  that  they  danced  beautifully 
together.     Their  steps  suited." 


120  Drifting  Waters 

"And  yet — they  couldn't  keep  step  afterwards," 
Anne  ventured  in  the  same  low  tone. 

"It  was  not  a  case  of  keeping  step,"  continued  Mr. 
Egerton,  half  forgetting  to  whom  he  was  talking.  "It 
was  a  case  of  each  bolting  in  a  different  direction." 

"Did — my  mother  bolt  too?"  breathed  Anne. 

This  roused  Mr.  Egerton.  He  wiped  his  glasses 
hastily. 

"I  speak  in  metaphor,"  he  returned.  "A  some- 
what unwise  mode  of  procedure  in  what  must  of  neces- 
sity be  more  or  less  a  one-sided  conversation.  In 
using  it  I  merely  meant  to  indicate  a  diversity  of 
action — a  straining  away  from  restraint  and  advice. 
But  I  weary  your  youth,  my  dear,  with  my  dialectics. 
Yes.  Your  mother  was  a  beautiful  woman.  More 
beautiful  than  you  will  ever  be,  Anne,  I  fear." 

"Don't  mind  him,  Anne,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton, 
coming  up.  "  It's  a  well-known  axiom  that  no  daugh- 
ter is  ever  as  beautiful  as  her  mother  was.  I've  been 
told  thousands  of  times  that  I'm  not  a  patch  on  mine, 
and  if  I  had  a  daughter  of  my  own  no  doubt  you  would 
all  assure  her  of  the  same  comfortable  fact.  Come 
and  see  your  grandmother,  Anne." 

' '  My  grandmother ! ' ' 

"You  needn't  look  so  frightened,  child.  I  don't 
mean  in  the  flesh.  The  Tudor  pictures  are  in  my  own 
private  room.  I  don't  obtrude  them  on  the  world  in 
general." 

"Rather  a  perverted  statement  of  facts,"  put  in 
Richard.  "She  means  that  she  keeps  them  all  to 
herself  because  she  doesn't  wish  anybody  else  to  look 
at  them.     The  sacred  Tudors ! " 

"He's  madly  jealous  because  he  isn't  one  himself," 


The  Tudors  121 

said  Mrs.  Egerton,  tucking  her  arm  through  Anne's. 
"So  is  Bobbady.  We'll  leave  them  to  mingle  their 
tears  together  while  I  introduce  you  to  your  own 
people." 


Ill 


Anne  thought  of  her  mother's  saying  that  she  was 
"no  chameleon"  as  she  followed  Mrs.  Egerton  to  her 
room;  yet  surely  people  did  take  colour  from  their 
surroundings,  did  change  according  to  their  environ- 
ment. Here  was  a  case  in  point — her  Aunt  Nancy. 
How  different  she  was  here,  in  her  own  home,  from 
what  she  had  been  in  Caroline  Place !  There  she  had 
been  rebuffed,  held  at  bay,  her  little  airs  and  graces 
frost-bitten.  Here  she  seemed  to  blossom  into  the 
light-hearted  insouciance  of  Nature's  own  endowment. 
She  was  on  her  own  ground,  sure  of  herself,  of  her 
place,  of  those  around  her. 

Subtly  the  same  sense  seemed  to  pervade  Anne. 
She  felt  that  here  she  was  surrounded  by  an  atmos- 
phere of  friendliness.  Suddenly  her  mother's  com- 
ment on  the  Tudors  flashed  across  her  mind.  "The 
King  can  do  no  wrong."  Here,  to  be  a  Tudor  counted. 
It  meant  sympathy,  comprehension,  condonation 

What  strange  contrasts  life  held. 

Mrs.  Egerton  opened  a  door  and  ushered  Anne  into 
a  room  that  was  spring-like  in  its  decorations  of  white 
and  green.  Great  bowls  of  violets  filled  it  with 
fragrance.  Here  also  daffodils  in  green  vases  shed 
their  sunshine.  The  chintzes  were  patterned  with 
violets.     It  was  all  fresh,  light,  characteristic. 

Over  the  writing-table  hung  pictures,  miniatures, 


122  Drifting  Waters 

photographs.  Mrs.  Egerton  led  Anne  up  to  them 
and  bade  her  look. 

"These  are  my  father  and  mother,"  she  said,  indi- 
cating two  miniatures,  which  hung  side  by  side  in  the 
centre. 

Anne  regarded  them  curiously.  The  man's  face 
was  proud  and  vigorous,  black-browed  and  black- 
eyed,  with  silvering  hair.  The  woman,  except  for  her 
eyes,  was  a  replica  in  porcelain  of  Nancy  Egerton, 
but  more  regularly  beautiful  and  with  a  hint  of  in- 
flexibility in  the  fine  curves  of  the  mouth. 

The  pictured  faces  seemed  to  look  straight  into 
Anne's,  as  if  asking  what  she  did  here:  she,  the  child 
of  one  who  had  trailed  the  pride  of  the  Tudors  in  the 
dust? 

"You've  got  your  grandmother's  eyes,  Anne,  except 
for  the  brows,  which  are  absurdly  like  your  grand- 
father's.    Your  mouth  is  more  like — "  she  stopped. 

A  sudden  wave  of  resentment  flooded  the  girl. 
The  Tudor  claim  seemed  too  insistent. 

"Have  I  nothing  of  my  own?"  she  cried,  impul- 
sively. "I  hate  being  made  of  little  bits  of  other 
people." 

Mrs.  Egerton  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  not,"  she 
answered  coolly.  "Not  even  your  temper.  To  all 
appearances  that  is  Tudor  too." 

"I'm  sorry.  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Anne,  in  equally 
swift  penitence.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  I 
hated  to  feel  as  if " 

"  As  if  what  ?  You  don't  know  how  you  interest  me, 
Anne." 

"Well,  as  if  I  were  a  sort  of  Tudor  rag-bag,"  Anne 
confessed,  flushing. 


The  Tudors  123 

"Oh,  you're  too  delicious,"  cried  Mrs.  Egerton. 
"A  Tudor  rag-bag!  How  Godfrey  would  have 
enjoyed  that!" 

Anne  glanced  towards  the  gallery  of  Tudors.  There 
were  clever  crayon  sketches  of  the  father  and  mother 
in  younger  days — sketches  in  which  they  looked  less 
arrogant,  less  critical,  more  human;  photographs  of 
boys,  youths,  men:  four  faces  in  different  phases. 
The  expressions,  the  contours  varied  slightly,  but 
each  face  held  the  same  pride  of  race,  the  same  bold 
challenge  to  the  world,  which  repelled  Anne  even 
while  it  drew  her.  She  felt  arraigned  before  an  in- 
quisition of  eyes.  One  pair  especially  held  her.  She 
knew  by  instinct  to  whom  they  belonged.  A  passion 
of  hatred  rose  within  her,  frightening  her  by  its  inten- 
sity, making  her  long  to  strike  that  handsome,  insolent 
face,  with  its  arrogant  eyes,  its  smiling,  pleasure- 
loving  mouth.  Her  mother's  wrongs  burned  within 
her,  yet  never  had  she  felt  so  terrifyingly  aware  that 
she  was  the  child  of  two  people. 

Mrs.  Egerton,  watching  curiously,  saw  no  sign  of 
the  tempest  that  surged  within  the  girl's  still  form. 
She  did  not  note  the  sudden  rigidity  of  every  soft 
young  line,  the  nervous  movement  of  the  tightly 
clasped  hands.  Anne's  brows  were  drawn  into  a  line 
above  blazing  eyes  that  were  almost  black,  but  her 
aunt,  who  was  no  psychologist,  knew  nothing  of  the 
chilly  fear  that  raised  its  pale  head  beside  the  old 
burning  sense  of  resentment,  nor  of  the  new  wave  of 
passion  that  intensified  both. 

She  only  wondered  at  Anne's  silence.  She  herself 
was  never  silent  for  long.  Her  airy  nature  must 
bubble  into  speech  as  a  spring  must   find  its  outlet. 


124  Drifting  Waters 

She  did  not  like  silence.  It  puzzled  her;  it  even 
frightened  her  a  little.  She  was  pricked  to  a  desire 
to  make  Anne  talk.  Speech,  if  only  silvern,  was  safe, 
was  ordinary,  was  the  everyday  superficial  commerce 
of  an  everyday  superficial  world;  speech,  for  choice, 
worn  bright  and  thin  from  the  pleasant  friction  of 
daily  use. 

"Well,  Anne?"  she  said,  her  head  on  one  side. 

Anne  started  a  little,  turned  slowly,  but  without 
looking  at  Mrs.  Egerton,  unclasped  her  hands,  and 
gave  a  little  gasp  as  if  she  too  had  suddenly  come 
back  to  a  more  familiar,  a  safer  element. 

"Well,  Aunt  Nancy,"  she  echoed  rather  tonelessly. 

"How  do  you  like  your — Tudors?" 

"My  Tudors?"  the  girl  echoed  again.  "Forgive 
me,  Aunt  Nancy.  Mother  says  it  is  very  rude  to 
repeat  what  people  say  to  you." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,  darling." 

"No.  I  was  thinking,"  Anne  returned  slowly. 
"They  are  all  very — handsome,  very  proud.  They 
all  have  the  same  sort  of  look.  They  are — a  little 
frightening,  perhaps." 

"Frightening?     I  don't  quite  understand." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  stupid  at  explaining,"  Anne 
hesitated.  "You  are  sure  you  won't  mind  if  I  try  to 
say  exactly  what  I  mean.  You  know  they  really  are 
all  absolute  strangers,  except  you." 

The  exception  softened  the  thrust  of  the  other 
words,  so  innocently  uttered. 

"I  shan't  mind  an  atom  what  you  say  if  only  you 
don't  call  us  strangers,  Anne.  Remember,  even  in 
spite  of  not  realizing  it,  you  are,  you  always  have 
been,  one  of  us." 


The  Tudors  125 

"But  I'm  not  altogether  one  of  you,"  Anne  broke 
out  disconcertingly.  "You  must  never  forget,  Aunt 
Nancy,  that  I  am  my  mother's  child,  that  my  father 
cast  me  off,  that  he  didn't  want  me.  In  my  heart  I 
belong  to  her,  even  if  I  am  a  Tudor  by  birth." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton, 
with  little  fluttering  touches  on  Anne's  hair.  "You 
are  a  dear  loyal  child.  Your  father — I  don't  con- 
done him.  I  can't.  But  I  love  him  all  the  same, 
Anne.     Do  you  know  which  of  those  he  is?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  sure?    Show  me." 

Anne  pointed 

"How  did  you  know?  Has  Margot  a  photograph 
of  him?" 

"No.     At  least  I've  never  seen  one." 

"Then  how  did  you  know?"  Mrs.  Egerton  repeated. 

"I — just  knew,"  said  Anne. 

"Wonderful  child,"  cried  Mrs.  Egerton  softly,  her 
eyes  dimming  for  a  swift  instant.  Then,  as  they 
brightened  again,  she  gave  Anne  a  little  shake.  "But 
you  have  not  yet  told  me  why  you  consider  us  a  little 
frightening." 

"Not  you,  dear  Aunt  Nancy,  but — the  men." 

"The  men!  Your  grandfather,  father,  and  uncles! 
It  does  sound  funny.     But  go  on,  go  on." 

"Well,"  Anne  began  slowly  knitting  her  black 
brows  as  she  puzzled  it  out,  "they  all  look  as  if  they 
always  did  exactly  as  they  wished,  not  caring  whether 
it  was  right  or  wrong,  but  somehow  seeming  to  think 
that  because  they  did  it  it  must  be  right,  that  their 
doing  it  made  it  right.  The  sort  of  thing  you  can't  argue 
against,  like  kings.     He — my  father — has  it  most." 


126  Drifting  Waters 

"Divine  right,  in  fact,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton.  "You 
odd  child!  Well,  there  were  royal  Tudors  once,  but 
not  of  our  branch.  Our  pride  dates  farther  back  than 
the  royal  connection.  But  you  are  older  for  your 
age  than  I  thought,  Anne,  and  more  observant.  In- 
trospective, even.     That's  one  of  Bobbady's  words!" 

"I  have  always  had  a  good  deal  of  time  for  think- 
ing," said  Anne,  simply.  "I  think  lots  and  lots  of 
things  that  I  never  say.  I  don't  like  to  bother  mother, 
and  Sabina  wouldn't  understand." 

"You  must  say  them  all  to  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Egerton, 
impulsively.  "Kiss  me,  you  dear  Tudor  sapling!  I 
feel  that  you  are  beginning  to  take  root  here  already." 

"Dear  Aunt  Nancy,"  Anne  responded  warmly, 
but  even  while  she  kissed  her  she  felt  that  there  were 
still  "lots  and  lots  of  things"  which  she  could  not  say 
even  to  her. 


rv 


When  Anne  came  into  the  drawing-room  before 
dinner  she  found  Richard  at  the  piano.  He  rose  at 
her  entrance,  thinking  that  she  looked  more  elfin  than 
ever  in  the  thin  green  silk  frock  she  wore. 

"Please  go  on  playing,"  she  said,  shyly. 

"Why?     Do  you  care  for  music?" 

"I  love  it,"  said  Anne. 

* '  I  wonder  ? ' '  returned  Richard  unexpectedly.  '  *  So 
many  people  say  they  love  music  who  care  only  to 
join  in  the  chorus  of  a  music-hall  song.  Others  profess 
to  be  '  musical, '  as  if  they  emitted  sound  when  wound 
up  with  a  key!  A  silly  way  of  putting  it.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 


The  Tudors  127 

"I  hadn't  thought  about  it  at  all,"  Anne  confessed. 

"Then  think  about  it  now  and  assure  me  that  I'm 
right." 

"I'm  sure  you  are,"  Anne  smiled  happily. 

"Perhaps  you  play  yourself,"  Richard  went  on, 
twisting  the  music-stool  invitingly. 

"I'm  learning,"  answered  Anne. 

"Please  play  a  little  something  for  me." 

Anne  obediently  went  to  the  piano.  As  she  sat 
down  on  the  music-stool  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden 
dreadful  accession  of  nervousness.  Her  fingers  felt 
like  cold  sticks,  which  clattered  among  the  unsym- 
pathetic keys,  making  nothing  but  a  blundering  con- 
fusion, where  she  essayed  the  "Berceuse  de  Jocelyn." 

She  stopped  abruptly.     "I'm  only  murdering  it." 

"That's  all,"  said  Richard  calmly. 

His  acquiescence  restored  her  poise  as  no  polite 
disclaimer   could   have  done. 

"Won't  you  play  something  yourself?"  she  asked, 
pressing  her  cold  hands  to  her  hot  cheeks. 

Richard  slipped  into  the  seat  she  left.  He  felt 
sorry  that  he  had  asked  her  to  play.  The  perform- 
ance had  been  truly  abominable.  He  began  to  play 
one  of  Chopin's  Preludes  with  light,  firm  touch. 
Then  he  wandered  into  the  waltz  that  sobs  and 
cries  and  plucks  at  the  very  heart-strings. 

Before  its  close  Anne  was  at  his  side,  with  white 
face  and  bright  eyes. 

"Don't,  please,"  she  begged.  "I  can't  stand  any 
more.     It  will  make  me  cry.     I  don't  want  to  cry." 

Richard  took  his  hands  off  the  keys,  leaving  an 
echo  of  unfinished  sweetness,  and  looked  up  at  her. 
"You've  had  a  trying  day,"  he  said  gently.     "I 


128  Drifting  Waters 

should  not  have  given  you  Chopin.  I'll  play  something 
that  will  rest  you  if  you  like." 

Anne  shook  her  head,  her  lips  quivered  a  little. 
"You  are  very  good,  but  not  just  now.  Another 
time  I  would  love  it." 

Richard  swung  round  on  the  piano-stool. 

"You  have  temperament  enough  and  to  spare,"  he 
said  abruptly.  "I  can't  understand  why  you  don't 
play  better." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Anne,  half  laughing.  "I  play 
much  better  than  that,  though  I  see  now  that  I 
really  can't  play  at  all.     I  was  frightened  of  you." 

"Frightened  of  me?  Let  me  salute  you  then  as  a 
unique  specimen  in  a  commonplace  world  which  holds 
me  in  no  awe  whatsoever.  But  you're  not  frightened 
of  me  any  more?" 

"Do  you  mean  in  any  way,  or  only  as  regards 
playing?" 

"We'll  take  the  playing  first." 

"I  am  more  frightened  of  you  than  ever." 

"Not  really?" 

"Yes,  really.  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  touch 
the  piano  before  you  again." 

"Why?     Am  I  such  an  ogre?" 

Anne  laughed  and  showed  a  flash  of  white  teeth. 
The  elfin  maid  seemed  to  melt  into  warm  humanity. 

"No,  indeed,  you're  not  an  ogre.  It  is  only  that 
you  can  play  and  I  can't." 

Richard's  eyes  twinkled  in  the  way  that  was  nicer 
than  Dr.  Waldron's. 

"You're  not  afraid  of  me  in  any  other  way?" 

"No,  indeed."  Whole-hearted  sincerity  rang  in 
Anne's  tone. 


The  Tudors  129 

"You  mustn't  be,"  said  Richard.  "I  am  the  most 
harmless,  innocent  person  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  a  voice  behind 
them. 

Richard  looked  up  and  Anne  wheeled  round  in  a 
little  whirl  of  green. 

i    * '  Have  you  and  Ricky  been  making  friends  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Egerton,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

Richard  glanced  suspiciously  at  her. 

"I've  just  been  criticizing  her  playing,"  he  answered, 
"in  a  most  unpardonable  fashion." 

"I  don't  mind  a  bit,"  Anne  declared.  "I  deserved 
it.     I  see  now  that  I  can't  play  at  all." 

"Oh,  Ricky's  abominably  particular,"  said  Mrs. 
Egerton.  "I'm  sure  you  can  play  very  prettily, 
darling." 

"Quite  nicely,  thanks,"  said  Richard,  and  laughed. 

Anne  laughed  too  as  their  eyes  met.  A  spark  of 
understanding  flashed  between  them. 

"She's  frank  and  honest  and  unself-conscious," 
thought  Richard.  "A  sense  of  humour,  too,  by  the 
little  Tin  Gods,  and  no  tricks  of  sex.  I  hope  Nancy 
won't  spoil  her,  poor  little  Tudor  sapling.  But  she 
does  play  abominably." 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  when  Anne  had  gone  to 
bed  in  a  pleasant  turmoil  of  excitement  engendered 
by  her  new  experiences,  Richard  brought  his  aunt  a 
cloak  from  the  hall,  wrapped  her  in  it,  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  took  her  for  a  walk  on  the 
terrace. 

Up  and  down  they  went,  picking  up  the  threads 
they  had  dropped  at  their  last  parting  until  presently 
the  longest  and  most  tortuous  of  them  led  to  Anne. 

9 


130  Drifting  Waters 

"Do  you  think  she's  pretty,  Ricky?"  asked  Mrs. 
Egerton. 

"No,"  said  Richard  bluntly.  "She's  a  quaint- 
looking  slip  of  a  thing,  with  her  big,  wild  eyes  and  her 
long,  black  plaits.  She  has  a  look  of  race  and  a  fine- 
ness as  well;  that  must  belong  to  the  Warreners,  I 
think,  for  none  of  you  have  it,"  he  ended  maliciously. 

Mrs.  Egerton  pinched  his  arm. 

"That  dreadful  jealousy  of  yours!  You  really 
should  try  to  conquer  it,  Ricky.  But  I've  seen  her 
look  lovely.  I  must  try  to  bring  that  look  to  her  face 
again  while  you're  here." 

"I  shouldn't  try  too  many  experiments  on  that 
child  if  I  were  you,  Nancy.  She's  a  very  highly- 
strung  instrument,  all  sensitive  vibrations.  Don't 
play  on  her  feelings  or  try  too  many  strings." 

Mrs.  Egerton  felt  slightly  ruffled.  "But  that's 
just  what  I  want  to  avoid.  She  has  enough  of  that 
sort  of  thing  at  home,  I  fancy.  Poor  Margot  was 
always  one  for  tearing  a  passion  to  tatters  in  her  effort 
to  prove  it  wholly  and  solely  hers.  She  takes  plente- 
ous toll  of  Anne,  I'm  sure.  I  don't  want  to  fray  any 
more  edges.  I  only  want  to  let  the  child  run  wild 
and  free,  to  love  and  pet  and  spoil  her,  and  in  return 
to  be  loved  just  a  little  by  her." 

"She'll  do  that  right  enough,"  said  Richard,  with 
a  little  chuckle.  "  She'll  burn  as  much  incense  as  you 
wish.  She's  a  born  devotee,  but  it  must  be  her  own 
incense.  No  use  in  giving  her  handfuls  of  yours,  my 
lady." 

"Ricky,  what  do  you  mean?  You  sound  as  if  you 
were  being  horrid." 

"Sound   is   often   deceptive,"    Richard   went   on. 


The  Tudors  131 

"But  as  I'm  in  an  extraordinary  mood  for  giving 
advice  here's  another  bit.  Don't  force  the  Tudors 
down  her  throat  too  much.  Let  her  get  used  to  them 
by  degrees.  They're  indigestible  fare  unless  you 
happen  to  be  born  to  it." 

"But  she  was!" 

"Not  really.  You  were,"  pursued  Richard,  de- 
lighted with  his  paraphrase.  "Her  mother  achieved 
Tudorism,  but  it  was  thrust  upon  poor  Anne.  Don't 
forget  that." 

"I  don't  know  where  you  achieved  your  uncanny, 
elderly  wisdom,  Richard.  It  irritates  me  intensely, 
I  suppose  because  I  perceive  that  there  is  a  faint  germ 
of  truth  in  it." 

"I  have  been  taking  out  a  course  in  experimental 
psychology,"  answered  Richard  with  a  twinkle.  "I 
expect  to  find  it  very  useful  in  helping  me  to  tie  up 
the  stray  dogs'  broken  legs.  But  to  what  profound 
conversational  depths  have  you  lured  me,  Nancy! 
This  won't  do.  Just  sniff  now,  and  tell  me  if  you 
ever  smelt  anything  so  heavenly  sweet  as  the  air  is 
tonight." 

Mrs.  Egerton  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"I  think  it's  very  chilly.  There's  a  glow  from  the 
library  window  that  is  most  alluring.  I'll  go  and 
toast  my  feet  at  Bobbady's  log  fire  until  it's  time 
to  go  to  bed.  You'll  find  us  and  drinks  and  things 
there  whenever  you  can  tear  yourself  away  from  the 
romantic  smells." 

She  pinched  his  arm  again,  and  flitted  off  towards 
the  open  window  of  the  library. 

Richard  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  parapet  and 
watched  the  moon  rise  in  slow  and  silver  beauty  above 


132  Drifting  Waters 

the  black  belt  of  the  fir-trees.  Presently  he  began  to 
whistle,  clear  as  a  piccolo,  the  Chopin  waltz  that  had 
ended  so  abruptly.  The  haunting  cadences  fell  softly 
upon  Anne's  half-slumbering  consciousness,  and 
brought  a  smile  to  her  parted  lips. 

Richard  whistled  on,  seeing  in  the  silvery  light  a 
vision  of  ethereal  beauty,  a  thing  of  dew  and  moon- 
beams, snow  and  roses,  which  in  real  life  resolved 
itself  into  a  very  lovely  but  very  practical  young 
person  named  Lilias  Damer,  whose  beauty  he  admired 
with  a  whole-hearted  extravagance  that  would  have 
had  a  very  nipping  effect  upon  Mrs.  Egerton's  flutter- 
ing hopes  had  she  but  known  of  it. 

But  she  did  not.  She  sat  by  the  log  fire,  warming 
her  pretty  feet  (the  Tudor  feet),  in  happy  ignorance, 
and  spinning  dreams  out  of  materials  as  airy  and 
unsubstantial  as  Richard's  vision  of  dew  and  moon- 
beams. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SWEET  o'  THE  YEAR 


WHEN,  a  day  or  two  later,  Richard  went  to  look 
for  Anne  to  take  her  fishing  with  him  he  found 
her  in  the  yard. 

She  was  on  her  knees,  feeding  very  new  chickens 
from  a  saucer  which  contained  chopped  hard-boiled 
egg. 

The  yard  was  a  pleasant  place,  with  cobble-stones 
and  cream- washed  out-houses,  and  in  the  comer  near 
the  hen-run  stood  a  small  thatched  cottage  where 
Matty,  the  hen-wife,  lived.  By  the  cottage  a  chestnut 
tree  opened  its  sticky  buds  and  pushed  forth  wrinkled 
green  fingers  to  the  light. 

Anne  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  steps.  Her  face 
was  alight  with  interest,  her  eyes  sparkled.  Matty,  a 
buxom  woman  of  about  fifty,  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
her  cottage,  regarding  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Good  morning,  Matty,"  said  Richard  cheerily. 
"Are  you  going  to  make  a  hen- wife  of  the  London 
young  lady?" 

"She  might  do  worse,  Mr.  Richard,"  Matty  re- 
turned. "She's  a  way  with  her.  Miss  Anne  has.  I 
believe  the  chicks  know  her  already." 

133 


134  Drifting  Waters 

"I  believe  they  do,"  cried  Anne,  lifting  one  ball  of 
primrose  fluff  to  her  cheek.  "Aren't  they  sweet? 
Aren't  they  lovely?    Just  like  mimosa  blossoms." 

"Mimosa  blossoms?"  Richard  echoed. 

"Yes.  You  know  that  yellow  fluffy  stuff  that  they 
sell  in  the  streets  in  the  Spring,"  said  Anne.  "These, 
wee  chicks  are  just  like  its  tiny  balls.  Don't  you- 
thinkso?" 

' '  Yes,  now  that  you  mention  it.  It  hadn't  occurred 
to  me  before.  One  is  used  to  hearing  town  things 
compared  to  country  things,  but  one  rarely  hears 
country  things  compared  to  town  things." 

"I  have  only  town  things  for  comparison,"  Anne 
returned,  lifting  another  chicken  softly. 

"Have  you  never  been  in  the  real  country  before?"; 

"Never,  till  now." 

"What  an  experience!"  said  Richard.  "A  novelty 
to  be  envied.     What  strikes  you  most  about  it?" 

"Its  cleanness,  I  think,"  Anne  answered,  "and  the 
joy  of  being  able  to  run  out  without  a  hat,  and  the 
numbers  of  sparrows  with  tails.  At  least  a  third  of 
the  London  sparrows  haven't  got  any." 

"But  people  sometimes  go  about  without  hats  in 
London." 

"I  know.  I've  seen  them,"  said  Anne.  "But 
Sabina  would  never  let  me  do  such  a  thing.  She 
says  its  common.  Poor  Sabina!  I  am  a  great  trial 
to  her,  I  know.  She  is  doing  her  best  to  make  a 
'young  lady'  of  me,  and  she  finds  it  a  hard  task." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  meet  Sabina,"  said  Richard 
looking  at  the  girl's  crouching  figure,  the  long  black 
plaits,  the  fluffy  yellow  chick  in  the  gently-curved 
hand. 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  135 

He  had  seen  little  of  Anne  during  the  past  few  days, 
but  he  was  aware  of  some  inner  sympathy  between 
them;  that  hail  of  a  comrade  soul  which  wings  across 
barriers  of  age  or  sex ;  that  camaraderie  of  the  spirit 
so  rarely  to  be  met  with  on  the  Highway  of  Life,  which 
is  as  joyfully  recognized  yet  as  impossible  to  define,  as 
the  sudden  magic  of  an  April  day.  It  is  there.  God 
be  thanked.  One's  feet  dance.  It  is  not  there,  and 
one  is  conscious  of  an  unexpressed  need,  a  trudging 
gait. 

It  was  only  vaguely  that  Richard  perceived  this. 
He  put  it  to  himself  that  Anne  interested  him,  that  she 
was  companionable,  that,  heaven  be  praised,  she  was 
no  flapper,  in  the  accepted  sense  of  the  vulgar  term. 

In  Anne's  inner  consciousness  she  was  aware  of  the 
cry  of  youth  to  youth.  He  was  young,  he  understood, 
he  was  and  yet  was  not  of  the  Big  People,  whose  ranks 
she  herself  was  rapidly  nearing. 

She  lifted  a  bright  face  to  his. 

"Sabina  is  Irish.  She  says  she's  a  sort  of  mongrel 
Herself,  because  her  father  was  a  Catholic  and  her 
mother  a  Protestant.  In  those  days  the  boys  went 
with  the  father  and  the  girls  with  the  mother,  so  they 
were  a  mixed  household." 

"And  what  are  you?"  asked  Richard  amused. 

"I?  Oh,  I'm  a  Protestant,  I  suppose.  Sabina 
takes  me  to  church  regularly." 

"Doesn't  your  mother  go?" 

"No,"  said  Anne  flushing. 

She  shook  the  last  bits  of  egg  to  the  ground  and 
rose,  straightening  herself. 

"Isn't  it  funny  that  they  should  eat  egg?"  she 
asked. 


136  Drifting  Waters 

Richard  laughed.  "It  seems  rather  cannibalistic 
when  you  think  of  it.  Now,  if  you've  quite  finished 
with  the  chickens  I  want  to  know  if  you'd  care  to 
come  fishing  with  me?" 

"I'd  love  it,"  cried  Anne,  clasping  her  hands  and 
opening  them  again  in  a  way  she  had  when  she  was 
pleased. 

"Nancy  is  putting  up  a  basket  with  some  luncheon 
for  us,  so  that  we  needn't  be  back  until  tea-time." 

' '  Lovely ! ' '  breathed  Anne.  ' '  A  picnic.  Just  what 
one  reads  about." 

"But  a  much  superior  kind,"  he  amended,  "for  you 
and  I  have  never  yet  appeared  in  a  book  picnic." 

"And  are  we  superior  to  book  people?" 

"Infinitely.     Because  we're  real  people." 

"Are  we?  I  sometimes  wonder,"  said  Anne,  paus- 
ing in  her  flight  of  joy.  "This  place  doesn't  seem 
really  real.     It  all  seems  too  good  to  be  true." 

"That's  what  the  foolish  people  say.  The  wise 
people  say  that  nothing  is  too  good  to  be  true." 

"I  think — I  think  it's  only  young  people  who  say 
that,"  said  Anne,  with  one  of  her  flashes  of  older 
intuition. 

"But  the  young  are  the  wise,"  Richard  asserted. 

"Are  they?    How?     Why?" 

"Because  they  know  that  the  world  is  theirs,  and 
that  they  have  Youth,  and  that  it  is  glorious,  and  that 
it  will  last  for  ever.  Which  is  the  height  of  wisdom 
or  the  apex  of  folly,  according  to  which  end  of  the 
opera-glass  you're  looking  through." 

"But  it  doesn't  last,"  cried  Anne  half  laughing, 
half-rueful. 

"Hush!"  Richard  cautioned.     "When  one  realizes 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  137 

that  one  has  lost  it  for  ever  don't  let  Time  hear  you 
talking  about  it." 

"Why  Time?" 

"Because  he  is  Youth's  only  enemy,"  said  Richard. 
"Now  go  and  put  your  hat  on  or  not,  as  you  choose, 
and  let  us  see  if  we  can  catch  a  dish  of  fish  for  Nancy's 
dinner." 

Anne  ran  off  as  light  of  foot  as  of  heart  and 
disappeared  through  the  yard  gate. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Richard,  it's  good  to  see  young  things 
about  the  place  again,"  said  Matty,  looking  after  her, 

"I'm  glad  you  said  'things,'  Matty.  If  the  word 
had  been  in  the  singular  it  would  have  hurt  me  sorely," 
Richard  retorted. 

Matty  laughed.  Mr.  Richard  was  a  queer  one, 
but  he  had  a  way  with  him,  for  all  that. 


II 


"You  are  rather  like  my  sister,"  said  Richard, 
baiting  h?s  hook. 

Anne,  who  was  sitting  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
watching  the  purple-green  outline  of  the  firs  against 
the  sky,  turned  her  head  a  little. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  sister,"  she  said. 

"I  haven't,  either,"  returned  Richard  with  provok- 
ing calmness.  "I  mean  that  you  are  rather  like  the 
sister  whom  my  mother  might  have  given  me  and 
didn't." 

"  Oh !    Have  you  no  brother  either  ? " 

"None.     Not  even  a  twin." 

"I  think  two  of  you  would  have  been  rather  too 
much  for  any  one,"  said  Anne.    Then  realizing  the 


138  Drifting  Waters 

peculiar  frankness  of  her  speech  she  tried  to  amend  it. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude.  It  just  slipped  out.  I 
don't  seem  to  think  beforehand  when  I'm  talking  to 
you.     Things  just  come." 

"Let  them  come,  by  all  means,"  begged  Richard. 
"That  is  the  nicest  compliment  I  was  ever  paid. 
Friends  shouldn't  have  to  weigh  words.  I'm  glad 
you  recognize  my  uniqueness  and  see  that  a  duplicate 
would  spoil  me." 

"I  didn't  quite  mean  that,  either,"  laughed  Anne. 
She  was  happy  and  at  ease  with  this  nice  twinkly-eyed 
person.  She  felt  that  she  could  say  anything  to  him 
and  that  he  would  understand.  In  her  heart  a  bird 
sang.  She  thought  of  her  mother,  and  wondered 
again  if  it  were  wrong  for  her  to  feel  so  happy.  Surely 
not.  Surely  she  would  rejoice  with  her  in  the  Spring, 
■  and  the  sweet,  fresh  country  air  and  the  love  with 
which  she  was  surrounded,  and  the  joy  of  the  April 
day  and  the  fun  of  her  first  picnic. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  you  meant,"  said  Richard, 
preparing  to  cast,  "because  now  there  is  to  be  an 
interval  for  silence." 

"Very  well,"  Anne  returned  curling  herself  up 
among  her  cushions.  "I  won't  even  breathe  if  you 
don't  want  me  to." 

"No  restrictions  on  breathing,"  said  Richard, 
sending  his  line  through  the  air  like  a  whip-lash. 

Above  the  rush-bordered  meadows  that  fringed  the 
lake  at  its  western  side  larks  were  soaring  and  singing. 
Singing  to  Anne,  who  listened,  rapt,  to  the  ascending 
spirals  of  exquisite  song. 

It  seemed  as  if  an  elfin  cascade  of  sound  scattered 
down  its  magic  spray  upon  her.     She  closed  her  eyes 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  139 

and  listened,  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  of  ecstasy,  ob- 
livious of  Richard,  of  her  surroundings,  of  everything 
except  the  intangible  enchantment  of  the  moment. 
A  magic  casement  had  opened.     She  was  away. 

Richard  looked  at  her.  There  was  something 
delicately  aloof  about  every  line,  every  curve  of  the 
relaxed  young  form.  In  spite  of  his  injunction  to 
silence  he,  manlike,  half  resented  the  completeness  of 
her  detachment.  The  elusive  smile  about  her  lips 
pricked  his  curiosity.  Prone  to  swift  and  over- 
mastering impulses,  he  himself  was  elusive  as  Proteus. 
Those  who  thought  they  held  him  found  that  he,  like 
Proteus,  changed  from  a  flame  to  a  quenching  stream, 
or  a  stick  wherewith  to  beat  his  own  folly.  His  im- 
pulses, however  compelling  they  might  be  for  the 
moment,  died  almost  inevitably  with  gratification. 
No  one  ever  discovered  that,  though,  for  he  used  his 
queer  half-garrulous  form  of  reticence  to  cloak  the 
flame  as  well  as  the  stick. 

The  sun  came  out  from  behind  a  cloud,  transfusing 
the  world  with  golden  light.  The  water  sparkled 
and  rippled;  the  young  leaves  of  the  bushes  on  the 
bank,  the  unfolding  chestnut-fans  near  the  house,  the 
tasselled  larches  among  the  crested  firs  glowed  like 
green  fire.  The  larks'  mad  ecstasy  stirred  the  blood. 
The  fanning  of  the  scented  air  was  silken  as  a  caress. 

Richard  drew  in  his  line.  Anne,  roused  by  the 
sound  of  the  reel,  opened  her  eyes. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  she  asked. 

"No  use  in  trying  to  fish  now.     It's  too  bright." 

"I  didn't  disturb  you?" 

"No,  you  mouse-like  thing,  except  by  your  quiet- 
ness." 


140  Drifting  Waters 

"Oh,  but  that's  nonsense,"  Anne  began. 

"Of  course  it  is.  I'm  going  to  row  you  round  the 
lake,  and  then  we'll  land  on  that  little  rocky  promon- 
tory with  the  Scotch  firs  and  have  luncheon.  Do  you 
like  that  programme?" 

"Very  much  indeed,"  said  Anne,  sitting  up.  "I'm 
rather  glad  you're  not  going  to  catch  fish.  I  don't 
like  seeing  things  killed." 

"It's  against  my  trade,  too,"  said  Richard,  laying 
his  rod  in  the  bow  and  reaching  for  the  oars. 

"What  is  your  trade?"  Anne  asked,  trailing  her 
hand  in  the  water. 

"Doctoring.     I'm  two-thirds  of  a  medico  already." 

"Are  you  really?  Somehow  I'd  never  have 
guessed  it.  I  can't  imagine  you  looking  at  people's 
tongues." 

"It's  a  sight  I  tire  of  easily,"  Richard  admitted. 
"But  what  can  you  see  me  doing?" 

"I — don't  quite  know,"  Anne  pondered  the  ques- 
tion for  a  moment.  "I  can  see  you  writing,  perhaps, 
by  fits  and  starts,  but  nothing  indoors  for  long.  I 
think — I  really  think  that  I  can  see  you — well,  tramp- 
ing, better  than  anything  else." 

Richard  shot  a  brown  sinewy  hand  towards  her. 
"Shake,"  he  said.  "You've  hit  it,  little  girl.  I'm  a 
bom  wanderer.  I  hate  to  be  tied  to  anything,  or 
any  one,  for  long.  Shackles,  even  the  lightest,  irk  me 
horribly." 

Anne  put  her  hand  into  his.  His  words,  so  lightly 
uttered,  sank  into  her  heart.  She  was  to  remem- 
ber them  all  her  life,  though  they  held  no  special 
significance  for  her  at  the  moment. 

"A  vagrom  man,"   Richard  continued.     "That's 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  141 

what  I  am,     I  think  I'd  like  to  go  down  to  the  sea 
and  foregather  with 

"Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. " 

"  I've  never  seen  the  sea.  At  least  not  until  the  day 
I  came  here,  when  we  passed  through  Southampton." 

"Never  seen  the  sea!  Incredible!  Then  you're  a 
regular  town  sparrow." 

"And  without  a  tail,  too,"  she  admitted  whimsi- 
cally, "for  I'm  sure  I'm  not  properly  balanced,  accord- 
ing to  Sabina." 

"Tell  me  more  about  your  life." 

"There's  really  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Anne,  retreat- 
ing into  her  shell. 

"Tell  me  something  about  your  mother,"  he  asked 
gently.  "She  has  always  been  a  pathetic  and  roman- 
tic figure  in  my  life." 

"Has  she?     Did  you  know  about  us ? " 

"Yes,  always.  My  mother  knew  yours.  She  was 
Helen  Egerton,  Uncle  Robert's  sister.  They  were 
all  friends  long  ago,  would  be  still  if  your  mother  had 
not  dropped  out.  It  was  her  own  doing,  Anne. 
They  were  all  hurt  by  it.  It  was  no  desire  of 
theirs." 

"No.  I  know,"  said  Anne.  She  felt  oddly  pleased 
at  his  instinctive  use  of  her  Christian  name,  at  the 
naturalness  of  the  intimacy  into  which  they  had  sud- 
denly dropped.  "It  was  mother's  own  wish.  She 
was  hurt  and  proud,  and  wanted  to  cut  herself  adrift 
from  everything  that  reminded  her  of  the  past." 

"But  that's  useless,"  Richard  interrupted.     "No 


142  Drifting  Waters 

one  can  cut  themselves  adrift  from  the  past.  It  is  in 
you,  and  you  are  a  part  of  it  yourself." 

"I  know,"  said  Anne  again.  "But  I  think  that 
mother  didn't  realize  that.  You  would  think  her 
more  romantic  and  pathetic  if  you  were  to  see  her  now. 
She  is  very  beautiful  and  very  weary — like  a  tired 
queen,  I  always  think." 

The  shadow  of  Caroline  Place  fell  over  her,  dimming 
her  brightness.  It  gave  Richard  a  queer  little  twinge 
to  see  the  droop  of  the  lips  which  had  been  curved  to 
laughter  but  a  moment  before. 

"But  you  are  not  a  tired  princess,"  he  suggested 
quickly. 

Her  face  lightened  again. 

"Oh,  no.  I  am  never  tired,"  she  said.  "I  feel 
that  I  could  walk  or  run  along  for  ever.  Boris  and  I 
run  races  every  day." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  really  are? "  asked  Richard 
wrinkling  up  his  eyes. 

"No,"  Anne  answered  eagerly.     "Tell  me." 

"Do  you  know  your  Hans  Andersen?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  you  are  one  of  the  Elfin  Princesses  who  lived 
in  the  Hillock,  who  wore  shawls  made  of  mist  and 
moonshine,  and  who  danced  before  the  old  Cobold 
and  his  two  unmannerly  sons." 

Anne's  eyes  sparkled.  "Yes.  I  remember.  The 
boys  put  their  feet  on  the  tables  and  made  the  Elfin 
Princesses  tickle  them  with  fir  cones,  but  the  old 
Cobold  was  a  dear,  with  his  crown  of  icicles  and  his 
tales  of  the  Waterfalls  and  the  Nixe's  golden  harp. 
Which  of  the  daughters  am  I?" 

"The  youngest.     Do  you  remember  she  was  very 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  143 

active,  and  transparent  as  moonshine,  and  when  she 
took  a  white  chip  in  her  mouth  she  disappeared  alto- 
gether.    That  was  her  art." 

"But  it  isn't  my  art,"  Anne  objected. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is.  You  disappeared  just  now  when 
I  was  fishing." 

"I  disappeared?"  she  echoed  questioningly. 

"Yes.  The  real  you,  the  essence  of  Anne,  vanished 
utterly.     You  were  in  another  world.     Where?" 

Comprehension  dawned  on  her. 

"I  believe  I  was,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  don't  know 
where  though." 

"In  the  Garden  of  Paradise,  shaking  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge?" 

"I — don't  know.     Perhaps." 

"Every  woman  is  her  own  Tree  of  Knowledge." 

Anne  looked  at  him,  wonder  dawning  in  her  face. 
"Is  she?     How  do  you  know ? " 

"A  woman  told  me  so." 

"Every  woman ? "  she  repeated,  half  shyly.  " Even 
an  Elfin  Princess?" 

"Especially  an  Elfin  Princess,"  Richard  answered, 
wondering  what  tree  might  stretch  upwards  in  the 
young  frame  before  him,  thinking  of  what  sowing  had 
gone  before  its  unconscious,  inevitable  growth. 

"But  I'm  not  a  woman  yet,"  said  Anne  very  low. 

There  was  something  rather  pitiful  in  the  phrase, 
half-plea,  half-assertion. 

"You're  an  Elfin  Princess,"  answered  Richard, 
looking  into  the  mystery  of  her  unawakened  eyes. 
"I  warn  you  that  I  shall  hunt  for  that  white  chip  of 
yours  and  burn  it,  if  you  take  to  vanishing  without 
notice." 


144  Drifting  Waters 

A  vivid  colour  rushed  to  Anne's  cheeks.  She 
clasped  her  hands  as  if  she  held  the  white  chip 
there,  defending  it  as  something  vital  and  precious, 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  she  cried.  "You  mustn't  bum  it. 
I  must  have  my  white  chip." 

Richard  laughed  teasingly.  The  glow  faded,  leav- 
ing her  pale  as  before,  but  he  now  understood  what 
Nancy  Egerton  had  meant  when  she  talked  of  the 
girl's  sudden  flash  of  loveliness.  It  was  gone  as 
swiftly  as  it  had  come.  It  was  as  impossible  to  re- 
trace as  the  vanished  glory  of  a  sunset,  yet  its  memory 
lingered  with  something  of  the  tantalizing  magic  of 
that  evanescent  miracle. 


Ill 


Anne  came  into  the  library  at  tea-time,  hungry, 
happy,  and  a  little  sleepy  from  her  long  day  in  the 
open. 

No  one  was  there  but  Uncle  Robert,  who  sat  with  a 
book  at  a  judicious  distance  from  the  fire.  Boris  lay 
on  the  rug  and  raised  his  long  white  head  as  she 
entered. 

Anne  knelt  beside  him  and  fondled  him.  She 
loved  the  beautiful  dog  and  already  he  loved  her. 

"Well,  my  dear,  had  you  a  nice  day?"  asked  Mr. 
Egerton,  closing  his  book  and  looking  with  pleasure 
at  the  two  young  things  playing  on  the  rug. 

"Heavenly!"  breathed  Anne,  with  a  sigh  of  delight. 

"Where's  Richard?" 

"He  went  in  by  the  back.  He  wanted  to  give  his 
fish  to  the  cook,  he  said." 

"  Did  he  catch  many  ?  " 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  145 

"Three  or  four  after  lunch.  I  didn't  look.  I  shut 
my  eyes  when  he  was  taking  them  off  the  hook." 

"The  predatory  instinct  has  various  manifesta- 
tions in  your  sex,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Egerton.  "  It  is 
as  yet  undeveloped  in  you,  apparently." 

"Yes,"  answered  Anne,  without  following  him. 
She  had  long  ago  discovered  that  it  is  quite  possible 
to  pursue  one's  own  train  of  thought  and  carry  on  a 
coherent  conversation  at  the  same  time.  She  was 
not  quite  sure  what  predatory  instinct  meant,  but  it 
did  not  matter  in  the  least.  The  larks  still  sang  and 
the  sun  still  shone.  The  breath  of  the  Spring  was 
sweet  in  her  nostrils,  was  tingling  on  her  cheeks.  The 
world  was  hers.  She  was  young.  Youth  was  glori- 
ous.    It  would  last  for  ever. 

"It  is  very  strongly  developed  in  some  women," 
continued  Mr.  Egerton  placidly.  "They  revel  in  all 
its  forms,  from  pursuit  of  the  lesser  to  chase  of  the 
nobler  quarry." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Anne  again,  pulling  Boris's 
ears. 

"It  is  the  type  with  which  George  Bernard  Shaw 
is  obsessed.  He  is  the  prophet  of  the  predacious  in 
woman.  He  pursues  it  to  the  nth.  For  myself,  I  am 
old-fashioned  and  do  not  see  things  in  the  same  light. 
I  differ  from  him  in  to  to." 

"Of  course,"  murmured  Anne,  who  had  never 
heard  of  George  Bernard  Shaw. 

"He  irritates  me.     He  maddens  your  aunt " 

"Really!"  Anne  thought  that  he  must  be  a  very 
disagreeable  person,  and  said  so  to  Boris. 

"Is  Aunt  Nancy  out?"  she  asked  aloud. 

' '  Yes.     She  went  after  luncheon  to  Darner's  Court," 


146  Drifting  Waters  , 

"What's  that  about  Darner's  Court?"  asked 
Richard,  coming  in. 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which  made  Anne 
sit  up  and  listen. 

"Your  aunt  has  gone  to  see  if  the  girls  have  come 
home  yet." 

"They  were  to  be  back  this  week,"  said  Richard, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  breast-pocket  and  taking  it 
away  again. 

Anne  had  the  odd  fancy  that  he  was  feeling  a  letter 
to  see  if  it  were  really  there.  The  thought  chilled 
her  a  little.  She  did  not  want  to  share  this  new-found 
friend  with  any  one. 

"If  they  have  returned  we  shall  have  no  peace," 
said  Mr.  Egerton.  "Especially  now  that  you  are 
here,  Richard.  It  will  be  a  whirl  of  Damers  from 
morning  till  night." 

Anne,  glancing  at  Richard,  saw  that  he  reddened 
in  spite  of  the  laughter  with  which  he  greeted  the 
suggestion. 

"  I  think  you  rather  over-rate  my  powers  of  magnet- 
ism," he  said,  stooping  and  pulling  Boris's  ears. 

"Not  at  all.  Merely  the  predatory  instinct  which 
Anne  and  I  were  discussing  when  you  came  in.  Were 
I  your  age  and  unattached  I  dare  say  I  should  possess 
the  same  power  of  attraction." 

Anne,  looking  up  at  the  long  placid  face,  very  much 
doubted  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  the  while  she 
deprecated  the  thought  of  the  "whirl  of  Damers" 
sweeping  down  on  their  happy  little  circle. 

"Who  are  the  Damers?"  she  asked. 

"Neighbours  of  ours,"  Mr.  Egerton  returned.  "At 
least,  they  reside  ten  miles  away  from  us,  but  the 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  147 

ingenuity  of  the  man  who  invented  motor-cars  has 
annihilated  distance  and  enforced  neighbourliness. 
There  are  two  daughters  and  a  son,  lively,  merry 
young  creatures.     You  will  like  them,  Anne." 

In  her  inmost  heart  Anne  knew  that  she  would  not. 

"They  are  great  friends  of  Richard's,"  Mr.  Egerton 
pursued.  "They  admire  him  immensely.  Why,  I 
have  not  the  least  idea." 

"I  admire  them,"  Richard  put  in  quickly. 

"You  have  supplied  an  excellent  reason,"  his  uncle 
continued.  "  'I  like  you  because  you  like  me'  is  the 
raison  d'etre  of  half  the  friendships  in  the  world. 
Margery  is  a  very  bright  winning  young  creature." 

"Lilias  is  exquisite,"  said  Richard,  almost  as  if  the 
words  were  forced  from  him. 

"Yes.     Pretty  in  a  porcelain  way." 

"No,  not  porcelain,  Uncle  Robert.  She  is — oh,  a 
creature  of  dew  and  moonbeams,  of  snow  and  roses." 

"She  can't  be  both,"  Anne  objected.  "The  dew 
and  moonbeam  sort  of  person  is  quite  different  from 
the  snow  and  roses  type." 

She  felt  a  vague  irritation  against  this  beautiful 
composite. 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Lilias  is  lovely  enough  to  make  any  one  mix  his 
metaphors,"  he  said,  walking  towards  the  window. 

"She  is  stupid,"  Mr.  Egerton  put  in  with  an  air  of 
finality.  "She  did  not  know  what  hexameters  were 
the  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her." 

"But  I  don't  know  either,"  said  Anne  quickly. 

"Ah,  but  you  confess  it,"  returned  Mr.  Egerton. 
"Lilias  Damer  ought  to  be  put  in  a  glass  case  for  our 
delight,  or  eaten  luxuriously  with  quantities  of  cream ! " 


148  Drifting  Waters 

"Hie  jacet  Lilias  Damer!"  said  Richard,  turning 
from  the  window  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Anne,  my  dear,  will  you  ring  for  tea  and  then 
pour  it  out  for  us?  There  is  no  use  in  waiting  any 
longer  for  your  aunt." 

"Nancy  can  never  tear  herself  away  from  Damer's 
Court,"  said  Richard.  "They  all  adore  her  there.  It 
is  she  who  is  the  real  attraction  here,  Uncle  Robert. 
She  is  as  young  as  the  youngest  of  them,  and  twice 
the  fun." 

"Yes,  Nancy  has  the  gift  of  the  gods,  eternal 
youth,"  said  Mr.  Egerton  softly.  "It  is  a  perpetual 
wonder  to  me  how  she  extracts  amusement  and  inter- 
est out  of  the  veriest  trivialities  of  every  day.  Now 
the  pleasant  chattering  circle  at  Damer's  Court  re- 
minds me  more  of  the  Monkey-house  at  the  Zoological 
Gardens  than  anything  else,  but  Nancy  is  one  who 
would  find  entertainment  in  a  wilderness  of  monkeys ! 
A  happy  temperament.  The  Tudor  temperament. 
I  think  you  have  it  a  little,  my  dear." 

He  turned  to  Anne. 

She  flushed  slightly,  and  busied  herself  among  the 
tea-things. 

"Have  I?"  she  murmured.  "Yes,  I  think  I  do 
enjoy  everything.  But  most  people  do,  don't  they? 
It's  not  peculiarly  a  Tudor  trait,  is  it?" 

Again  Richard  heard  the  note  of  appeal,  and 
responded. 

"  I'm  glad  you  don't  want  to  exploit  Nancy's  Tudor 
exclusiveness.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  heard  of  the 
old  Irish  woman's  retort  to  the  girl  who  told  her  that 
she  was  going  to  marry  one  of  the  Tudors,  and  ex- 
patiated on  his  perfections.    '  I  declare.  Miss,'  she  said, 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  149 

'  to  hear  you  talk  you'd  think  he  was  a  Cock  Angel ! ' 
Nancy  thinks  they're  all  Cock  Angels,  and  goes  about 
brandishing  feathers  from  their  wings  to  prove  it." 

Anne  laughed.  She  felt  instinctively  that  Richard 
did  not  altogether  like  the  Tudors,  and  while  this 
gave  her  a  sensation  of  warmth  in  one  part  of  her 
consciousness  there  was  another  part  which  felt  an 
odd  smothered  prick  of  resentment  at  his  criticism. 

As  for  Richard,  before  he  had  half  embarked  upon 
his  story  he  remembered  that  it  was  Anne's  mother 
who  was  the  heroine.  Poor  Margaret  Tudor!  Her 
Cock  Angel  had  few  wing-feathers  left  now,  he  thought 
whimsically. 

After  tea  he  sauntered  off  to  the  drawing-room 
and  began  to  play  the  piano. 

The  sound  of  music  drew  Anne.  She  stole  to  the 
door,  and  asked  if  she  might  enter  and  listen. 

Richard  nodded.  His  face  had  a  queer  rapt  look. 
Anne  thought  he  must  be  thinking  of  his  lady  of  dew 
and  moonbeams,  and  felt  suddenly  lonely. 

For  awhile  the  music  stirred  her  to  a  vague  unrest. 
He  seemed  to  play  upon  her  heart-strings,  on  the 
very  chords  of  her  being.     Then  it  suddenly  changed. 

He  looked  round  and  nodded  to  her. 

"What  does  this  remind  you  of?"  he  asked. 

She  listened,  and  gradually  a  look  of  delight  irra- 
diated her  face.  The  music  was  crisp  and  light  and 
fantastic  and  pathetic.  It  made  you  smile,  and  yet  it 
held  a  wistfulness  withal. 

"It  reminds  me  of  the  Elfin  Hillock  and  the  old 
Cobold  and  the  Water  Nixes,  and  the  ice-fields,  and 
the  Elfin  Maidens  dancing  in  the  moonshine,"  she 
cried. 


150  Drifting  Waters 

"Yes,  and  this  is  your  white  chip."  He  played  a 
little  chord  softly.     "I  have  it  in  my  pocket  now." 

Anne  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She  felt  certain 
that  no  one  could  take  her  "white  chip" — the  symbol 
of  her  power  of  detachment,  her  moments  of  ecstasy, 
the  opening  of  her  magic  casements — from  her.  Yet 
deep  in  her  heart,  unconfessed,  lurked  a  tiny  crouch- 
ing idea  that,  if  any  person  in  her  world  had  such  a 
power,  Richard  Assheton  was  that  person. 

He  played  the  little  chord  again,  and  there  was  a 
tinge  of  mockery  in  his  smile. 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  haven't  got  it  yet.  The 
magician  who  made  that  music  might  be  able  to  find 
it,  but  not  you.     What  is  his  name?" 

"His  modem  name  is  Edvard  Grieg,"  answered 
Richard,  turning  round,  "but  he  is  in  reality  a  descend- 
ant of  the  old  Cobold  of  the  Dovrefjeld.  I  believe 
he  used  to  steal  out  by  himself  in  his  crown  of  icicles 
and  fir-cones  to  see  the  white  foam  of  the  waterfalls 
and  the  salmon  leaping  in  the  rivers,  and  the  Water 
Nixe  crying  to  her  harp  because  she  has  no  soul,  and 
the  elves  dancing  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  Elfin 
Princesses  tripping  round  their  Hillocks,  and  many 
more  signs  and  wonders.  He  knew  you  in  those 
days,  you  sprite  with  the  white  chip.  He  has  got 
you  and  all  those  other  elusive  fantasies  into  his 
music." 

"Yes,"  breathed  Anne  happily.  "He's  wonderful. 
But  I'm  not  an  elusive  fantasy." 

"What  are  you,  then?" 

"Just  an  ordinary  girl." 

Richard  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Not  ordinary.     Please."     He  had  a  little  trick, 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  151 

which  Anne  had  already  noticed,  of  saying  "please" 
when  he  wanted  to  disagree  with  you. 

"After  all,  it  doesn't  matter  what  I  am,"  she  said 
with  one  of  her  swift  withdrawals.  "It's  what  he  is 
that  counts.  Play  some  more."  Then  an  impulse 
took  her  and  she  asked:  "Does  he  remind  you  of — of 
'  Snow  and  Roses '  ? " 

Richard  gave  her  a  queer  look. 

"No"  he  answered  shortly. 

"Does  Chopin?"  Anne  pursued. 

"Elfin  Princess,  you  want  to  know  too  much,"  said 
Richard.  "At  present  I  think  you  know  quite  as 
much  as  is  good  for  you,  if  not  a  little  more." 

He  turned  abruptly  to  the  piano  again  and  began 
to  play  one  of  Tschaikovsky's  haunting  melodies. 

Anne  caught  her  breath. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  talk  of  her,"  she  thought. 
"Does  that  mean  much  or  little,  I  wonder?" 

She  was  learning  rapidly  from  her  hidden  tree  of 
knowledge,  thus  proving  the  truth  of  Richard's 
epigram 


IV 


The  days  that  came  after  caused  a  burgeoning  of 
the  tree  into  somewhat  bitter  leafage. 

Mrs.  Egerton  returned  from  Darner's  Court  full  of 
plans  and  quickened  interests,  followed,  as  Uncle 
Robert  had  foretold,  by  a  regular  Damer  whirl.  Ten 
miles,  with  the  aid  of  a  car  which  any  of  the  three 
young  Damers  could  drive,  proved  to  be  almost  as 
much  "next  door"  as  one  could  wish;  more  than  Anne 
wished,  of  a  truth.     The  Damers  claimed  Richard  day 


152  Drifting  Waters 

by  day.  They  wanted  him  to  golf,  to  ride,  to  play 
tennis,  to  help  them  to  lay  out  small  private  links  at 
Damer's  Court,  to  go  here,  there,  and  everywhere  at 
their  bidding.  In  a  word,  he  was  engulfed  in  the 
whirl,  and  Anne  lost  her  companion. 

The  Damers,  Lilias,  Margery,  and  Jack,  were 
pleasant  and  friendly  enough  to  her;  but  she  was  the 
odd  person,  the  fifth  spoke  in  the  wheel,  and  they 
made  no  real  eflFort  to  draw  her  into  their  magic  circle. 
They  had  no  common  meeting-ground.  Anne's 
interests  were  far  removed  from  their  scope.  They 
scarcely  spoke  the  same  language.  She  knew  none  of 
their  gay,  slangy  shibboleths.  She  had  never  at- 
tempted to  play  any  of  their  games,  at  which  they 
were  far  too  expert  and  too  well  content  with  their 
perfect  number  of  four — time,  place,  and  opportunity 
— to  waste  precious  hours  in  teaching  to  her. 

Anne  was  too  shy,  too  unused  to  youthful  exuber- 
ance to  make  advances,  though  at  first  she  was  pitifully 
eager  to  respond.  The  Damer  girls  thought  her  stiff 
and  uninteresting — "rather  queer" — in  the  phrase 
with  which  they  usually  dismissed  anything  that  was 
outside  their  somewhat  limited  range  of  vision. 

Margery  wondered  how  she  could  possibly  be 
darling  Mrs.  Egerton's  niece. 

Lilias  asked  plaintively,  "  What  was  one  to  do  with  a 
girl  who  didn't  play  any  games,  and  who  wouldn't  talk?  " 

She  had  a  little  trick  of  italicizing  words  which  went 
well  with  her  fluttering  eyelashes,  and  which  irritated 
Anne  intensely. 

The  days  at  Damer's  Court,  planned  fondly  for  her 
amusement  by  Mrs.  Egerton,  held  hours  of  hot  re- 
sentment and  bitter  disillusionment  for  Anne. 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  153 

She  was  always  the  one  who  looked  on,  and  no 
young  person  ever  yet  enjoyed  that  r61e.  The  Cup 
of  Life  must  be  tasted  before  we  are  content  to 
watch  others  drinking,  and  as  yet  Anne  had  scarcely 
sipped  it. 

Richard's  demeanour  towards  her  was  unchanged, 
but  she  saw  very  little  of  him,  and  she  resented  the 
universal  assumption  that  he  was  to  be  always  at 
Lilias'  beck  and  call.  He  was  openly  devoted  to  her, 
openly  her  admirer.  He  permitted  her  to  play  him 
almost  as  he  himself  had  played  the  fish  on  that  un- 
forgotten  day  on  the  lake.  Yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  attitude  that  puzzled  Anne,  something  of 
latent  amusement  at  the  little  tricks  and  caprices 
which  he  sometimes  ignored,  sometimes  suffered  with- 
out resentment. 

Anne  resented  for  him  but  told  herself  with  hot 
cheeks  that  he  would  laugh  at  the  idea  of  her  consti- 
tuting herself  his  champion.  He  was  able  to  take 
care  of  himself.  She  felt  that,  and  felt  also  as  if  part 
of  him  held  aloof  and  smiled  at  the  other  part  which 
Lilias  held  enthralled. 

"She  is  nothing  but  spun-glass  and  floss-silk,"  she 
assured  herself.  "She  can't  feel.  She  thinks  of  no 
one  but  herself.  She  can't  understand  half  he  says 
to  her,  I'm  sure.  She  would  think  him  mad,  or  rather 
'  queer '  if  he  talked  to  her  about  Cobolds  and  Water 
Nixes.  She  isn't  worthy.  Oh,  she  isn't  worthy. 
She  is  only  spun-glass  and  floss-silk,  and  he — "  she 
checked  her  thought  for  want  of  a  simile. 

She  could  find  none  for  him.  He  was  the  nicest 
person  she  had  ever  met.  There  was  neither  need 
nor  possibility  of  comparison. 


154  Drifting  Waters 

Gradually  she  retreated  from  the  edge  of  their 
circle.     She  did  not  want  to  look  on  any  longer. 

Mrs.  Egerton  was  puzzled,  even  a  little  hurt  by  the 
girl's  attitude.  She  had  hoped  for  much  for  her  from 
the  cheery  young  companionship  at  Damer's  Court, 
and  she  could  not  understand  how  the  natural,  happy, 
fun-loving  Anne,  whom  all  Trent  knew  and  loved,  froze 
into  the  stiff,  shy,  unapproachable  girl  who  emerged 
from  the  shadow  of  the  avenue  trees  at  Damer's 
Court. 

The  Damers  were  such  dears.  Their  gay  young 
society  must  be  good  for  Anne.  It  was  a  pity  that 
the  child  knew  no  games,  but  she  could  easily  learn; 
she  was  lithe  and  swift  and  tireless  in  her  movements. 
There  was  something  joyous  and  pagan  in  the  way 
in  which  she  and  Boris  ran  races  together  by  the  lake. 
Robert  and  she  often  watched  the  two  with  pleasure. 
It  was  he  who  had  drawn  her  attention  to  what  he 
called  "a  poise  as  beautiful  as  the  captured  grace  of 
some  Attic  frieze." 

It  struck  her  as  odd  and  unnatural  that  here,  with 
older  people,  Anne  should  be  young,  light-hearted, 
happy,  while  these  budding  gaieties  fell  shrivelled 
from  her  at  contact  with  those  of  her  own  years.  In 
her  heart  she  blamed  the  girl's  mother. 

"Margot  has  vampired  on  the  child's  youth  and 
vitality, "  she  said  to  herself  with  unusual  bitterness. 
"She  has  caged  her  and  clipped  her  wings,  so  that 
now  she  is  free  to  fly  she  doesn't  know  how.  I  have 
no  patience  with  Margot. " 

The  climax  came  one  day  after  luncheon. 

The  Damers  had  been  to  Trent  the  day  before.  An 
afternoon  at  Damer's  Court  had  been  arranged  for 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  155 

today.  Anne  was  silent  during  the  discussion  of 
plans,  but  when  the  meal  had  ended  she  slipped  after 
Mrs.  Egerton  and  overtook  her  in  the  corridor. 

"Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  didn't  go  to 
Damer's  Court  today?"  she  asked,  going  at  once  to 
the  point,  as  was  her  way,  despite  an  innate  shrinking 
from  any  discussion  of  the  subject. 

Mrs.  Egerton  turned  and  tucked  her  arm  through 
the  girl's. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  darling?  Do  you  feel  ill?  " 
she  asked  anxiously. 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "  I  never  felt  better,  thanks, 
Aunt  Nancy.  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  only — • 
only  that  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Damer's  Court  today." 

"Come  up  to  my  room.  We  shan't  be  disturbed 
there,  and  you  can  tell  me  what  is  in  your  mind." 

Could  she?  Anne  wondered,  as  she  followed  her 
aunt  to  the  charming  white  and  green  and  violet 
room,  which  was  always  redolent  of  fragrance  and 
spring. 

Today,  in  a  green  tub  near  the  window,  stood  a 
little  tree  of  white  lilac  which  Macpherson  had  sent 
up  from  the  forcing-house.  Anne  went  straight 
towards  it  and  hung  over  it,  entranced. 

"Oh,  this  is  heavenly — heavenly!"  she  breathed, 
closing  her  eyes  and  inhaling  its  perfume. 

Mrs.  Egerton  looked  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"It's  rather  like  you,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 
"Slim,  and  white,  and  sweet.  Is  my  Tudor  sapling 
going  to  grow  into  a  white  lilac-tree,  I  wonder?" 

"Perhaps  I  was  the  Dryad  of  the  tree  in  another 
incarnation,"  said  Anne,  off  on  a  delightful  flight  of 
fancy.     "I  feel  as  if  lilac-trees  and  I  had  something  in 


156  Drifting  Waters 

common ;  larches,  too,  and  silver  birches.  I  must  have 
been  a  water  nymph  at  another  time,  I  know,  for 
running  water  casts  a  spell  over  me.  I  could  listen 
for  hours  to  the  dropping  of  that  little  stream  where 
it  runs  out  of  the  fir-wood  into  the  lake.  I  deepened 
a  little  channel  for  it  and  stuck  a  laurel-leaf  into  the 
bank  for  a  spout,  and  it  drips,  drips,  drips  into  the 
water  below  like  fairy  music." 

She  sank  on  to  a  mauve  footstool  near  Mrs.  Eger- 
ton's  chair,  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  and 
looked  up  with  a  face  that  was  ardent  and  alight. 

Mrs.  Egerton  caught  the  black  plait  that  was  near- 
est to  her  and  began  to  play  with  it. 

"You  and  Ricky  should  compare  fairy-tales,"  she 
said.  "  His  head  is  full  of  all  sorts  of  fantasies.  But 
this  does  not  explain  why  you  don't  want  to  go  to 
Darner's  Court. " 

Anne  felt  as  if  she  had  been  jerked  back  to  disagree- 
able reality  again. 

"Don't  you  like  the  Damers?"  Mrs.  Egerton 
pursued. 

"Not — much,"  Anne  confessed.  "They  are  pleas- 
ant and  friendly  enough,  but — but  they  make  me  feel 
outside,  somehow.  I  am  outside,  I  know.  Very 
naturally.  I  don't  do  any  of  the  things  they  do,  or 
know  any  of  the  things  they  know,  or  read  any  of 
the  things  they  read,  but  still " 

"Silly  child,  I'm  sure  they  don't  mean — "  began 
Mrs.  Egerton  with  a  soft  helplessness. 

Anne  gave  an  odd  little  laugh,  and  tightened  the 
clasp  of  her  hands  about  her  knees. 

"Don't  they?  I  wonder.  Sometimes  I  think  they 
don't,  but  sometimes" — it  came  out  like  a  stone  from 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  157 

a  catapult — "sometimes  I  think  they  shut  me  out 
deliberately.  It's  my  own  fault,  I  suppose.  They 
think  me  queer.  Queer  is  the  one  word  they  have  for 
anything  they  don't  understand,  and  what  they  don't 
understand  they  don't  like.  I  suppose  I  am  queer. 
Am  I,  Aunt  Nancy?" 

Mrs.  Egerton's  dark  eyes  met  the  grey  ones  in  a 
moment's  embarrassment.  Then  she  took  up  the 
second  plait  and  began  to  tie  the  two  in  a  bow  under 
Anne's  round  white  chin. 

"Well,  you're  not  exactly  ordinary,  darling.  But 
then" —  her  brow  cleared  as  if  she  had  found  reason 
and  palliation  in  one  blest  phrase — "then,  you're  a 
Tudor,  you  know." 

"You're  a  dear,"  cried  Anne,  kissing  the  hand 
nearest  her  with  one  of  her  sudden  impulses.  "And 
you  won't  ask  me  to  go  to  Damer's  Court  again?" 

"Don't  you  really  want  to  go?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't.  I'd  much  rather  stay  here  and  run 
races  with  Boris,  or  go  for  a  walk  with  Uncle  Robert, 
or  feed  the  chickens  with  Matty.  She  lets  me  help 
her  a  lot  now,  and  I  love  it.  You  see,  I'm  not  used  to 
being  with  young  people.  I've  always  been  with  older 
people,  and  I — I  think  I  like  them  better." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  admission  to 
Mrs.  Egerton ;  yet  something  to  be  combated. 

"But  that's  not  natural,  Anne.  You  should  care  to 
be  with  young  people." 

"Not  the  Darner  kind, "  Anne  persisted. 

"I  could  see  that  you  didn't  care  for  going  to 
Damer's  Court,  that  you  were  not  quite  yourself  there, 
but  I  did  not  realize  that  you  felt  as  you  do  about  it. " 

"  Don't  worry,  dear  Aunt  Nancy.     I  didn't  mean  to 


158  Drifting  Waters 

distress  you,  but  you  would  have  it.  It's  probably  all 
my  own  fault. " 

"The  Darners  are  such  dears,"  continued  Mrs.  Eger- 
ton  plaintively.     "I'm  sure  they  never  meant " 

"I  don't  suppose  any  one  ever  means  to  be  horrid," 
Anne  interrupted  with  a  touching  childishness.  "No 
one  could  ever  deliberately  want  to  hurt  another 
person,  but  people  do  it  all  the  same.  Why,  then, 
put  yourself  in  the  way  of  it  if  you  needn't?  " 

"Little  Anne,  they  didn't  hurt  you  really?" 

"Not  vitally,"  answered  Anne,  with  a  smile.  "They 
banged  my  toes  when  they  were  shutting  me  out. 
That  was  all.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  worry  about  it. 
I'm  perfectly  happy  here.  I  love  everything  and 
everybody  except  the  Damers.  I  said  I  didn't  like 
them  much.  I  don't  like  them  at  all,  any  more  than 
I  liked  Sylvia  Burton,  an  odious  little  girl,  who  was 
always  being  held  up  to  me  as  a  paragon  long  ago. 
I  envied  her,  and  I  envy  them  a  little  too,  but  I 
never  could  like  them.  There!  Now  you  see  how 
horrid  I  am!" 

She  ended  with  faintly-flushed  cheeks  and  a  half 
deprecating  glance  from  shining  eyes. 

Mrs.  Egerton's  delicate  black  brows  went  up.  Was 
this  an  ordinary  girlish  jealousy,  or  was  it  really  the 
clash  of  temperamental  differences?  Anne  was  more 
than  a  little  puzzling,  perhaps  a  little  disappointing. 
Why  need  she  have  allowed  the  Damers  to  antagonize 
her  thus?  Mrs.  Egerton  expected  life  to  be  all  ripple. 
She  felt  aggrieved  if  the  ripples  broke  into  waves  and 
wet  her  with  their  spray. 

"I'm  sorry  you  should  feel  like  that, "  she  said  after 
a  moment,  "but  I  don't  think  you  horrid  at  all. " 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  159 

"No.     I'm  a  Tudor,"  put  in  Anne  quickly. 

Then  she  repented  as  suddenly.  "Dear  Aunt 
Nancy,  you  see  I  am  horrid  after  all ! " 

"No, "  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  with  one  of  her  little  pats. 
"But  I'm  puzzled.  I'm  wondering.  You  get  on  all 
right  with  Ricky,  don't  you?" 

Anne  looked  in  amazement  at  her. 

"Of  course.  But  he's  different.  You're  not  com- 
paring him  with  the  Damers,  are  you?  Still,  even  he 
has  changed  a  little  since  they  got  hold  of  him,  since 
they  pulled  him  inside.  Aunt  Nancy. "  She  stopped 
suddenly. 

Mrs.  Egerton  untied  the  plaits. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked  softly. 

" Nothing, "  said  Anne.  "Oh,  well,  it's  only  this. 
Is  Ricky  going  to  marry  Lilias  Damer?" 

Mrs.  Egerton's  laugh  tinkled.  "You  absurd  child, 
no!  Why,  Ricky  hasn't  two  farthings  to  knock  to- 
gether. He  will  have  to  depend  entirely  on  his  own 
exertions  when  he  gets  his  profession.  His  mother  is 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman  who  was  able  to  leave  her 
barely  enough  to  live  on.  None  of  the  Egertons  are 
well  off  either.  Lilias  is  not  made  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
poor  man." 

"No,"  said  Anne,  conscious  of  a  sense  of  relief. 

"But  Ricky " 

'Oh,  Ricky  won't  have  even  a  scratch,"  asserted 
Mrs.  Egerton  lightly. 

Anne  looked  questioningly  at  her.  A  memory  born 
of  her  new  knowledge  weighed  upon  her,  but  for  the 
moment  she  could  not  give  it  voice. 

"Ricky's  heart  is  quite  untouched,"  her  aunt  con- 
tinued.    "I  know  him  through   and  through.     He 


i6o  Drifting  Waters 

admires  Lilias  tremendously,  but — "  she  paused 
significantly. 

For  a  further  moment  Anne  kept  silence,  then 
shattered  it  with  the  sharp  thrust  of  her  query. 

"Aunt  Nancy,  have  you  ever  noticed  the  way  he 
looks  at  her?" 

"The  way  he  looks  at  her?"  echoed  Mrs.  Egerton, 
searching  her  memory.  "Ye-es.  Now  that  you 
mention  it  I  have  seen  him  look  at  her  quite  hungrily. 
Perhaps  he  cares  more  than  I  imagined.  I  hope  not. 
Oh,  I  hope  not.  Lilias  Damer  is  a  darling,  but  she's 
not  the  wife  for  Ricky. " 

"No,"  said  Anne  emphatically. 

"Anne,  you've  made  me  feel  very  uncomfortable." 
Mrs.  Egerton's  tone  was  slightly  ruffled.  Certainly 
the  girl,  with  her  doubts  and  dislikes,  was  distinctly 
disturbing  today. 

"I'm  sorry.  Aunt  Nancy,  but  I  couldn't  help 
noticing  the  way  Ricky  looked  at  her,  and  I  wondered 
if  you  had  noticed  it  too. " 

"What  a  disagreeably  observant  child  you  are!" 
said  Mrs.  Egerton,  with  a  petulant  laugh.  "That's 
not  a  Tudor  trait,  I  think. " 

"No.  The  Conquerors  don't  observe.  They  just 
go  on, "  said  Anne  drily. 

As  regarded  the  Damer  explanation  her  conscience 
was  clear  as  crystal. 

Aunt  Nancy  asked  for  the  reason,  and  had  to  have 
the  truth. 

Now  her  remark  about  the  Tudors  had  set  further 
ruffling  fingers  to  Mrs.  Egerton's  smoothness.  She 
wondered  what  she  could  do  to  make  amends. 

A  bumble-bee  came  blundering  in  through  the  open 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  i6i 

window  to  a  bowl  of  wallflowers  which  stood  on  the 
writing-table.  Anne  watched  him  settle  on  the  velvet 
blooms  and  probe  for  their  honey  sweetness,  rise,  buzz, 
and  d-ve  again.  In  one  of  his  flights  he  blundered 
against  the  frame  of  her  grandmother's  picture,  and 
swerved  in  his  heavy  flight,  almost  falling  on  the 
golden  wallflowers. 

To  Anne's  quickened  fancy  it  seemed  as  if  her 
grandmother  watched  the  incident  with  amused 
unconcern.  An  idea  struck  her.  She  turned  to  her 
aunt. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  something  about  the  Tudors?" 
she  asked,  laying  a  tentative  hand  on  her  knee.  ' '  You 
said  you  would  some  day.  Is  this  the  day,  do  you 
think?" 

"Do  you  really  care  to  hear,  Anne?  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  your  mother  had  imbued  you  with  all 
her  dislike,  all  her  distrust  of  us."  The  words  fell 
with  unusual  detachment. 

Anne  flushed.  With  a  little  effort  she  ignored  the 
imputation  and  answered  the  question. 

"I  really  do  want  to  hear.  Aunt  Nancy,"  she  said, 
withdrawing  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Egerton  caught  it  as  it  went,  put  it  back  on  her 
knee,  and  patted  it.  Coldness  was  foreign  to  her 
nature.     It  melted  at  once  in  response  to  any  warmth. 

"Where  shall  I  begin?"  she  said,  smiling  at  the  girl 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  renewed  intimacy.  "There 
are  so  many  queer  stories  about  our  forebears  that 
selection  is  difficult." 

"Tell  me  about  the  wicked  ones  first,"  Anne 
answered.  "You  can  keep  the  good  ones  till  the  last 
as  a  sort  of  antidote. " 


1 62  Drifting  Waters 

Mrs.  Egerton  laughed.  "You  want  to  know  the 
worst.     Well,  perhaps  you're  right." 

"It's  not  exactly  that,"  said  Anne.  "It's  because 
the  stories  of  the  wicked  ones  are  probably  more 
picturesque.  Goodness  is  beautiful,  but  it's  not 
picturesque." 

"You're  an  odd  child,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  looking 
curiously  at  her. 

Had  Anne  been  a  practised  diplomatist  she  could 
have  chosen  no  better  way  of  smoothing  her  aunt's 
ruffled  feathers,  but  it  was  not  mere  diplomacy  which 
had  prompted  her  suggestion.  In  her  inmost  heart 
she  wanted  to  know  all  she  could  about  these  dominat- 
ing ancestors  of  hers.  Something  within  her  again 
vibrated  to  the  thought,  some  far  call  of  the  blood, 
some  faint,  insistent  pull  of  kinship. 

"Perhaps  there  aren't  any  wicked  ones,"  she 
suggested  mischievously. 

"Naughty  child,  of  course  there  are.  They  are 
sandwiched  in  between  the  ones  who  were  a  real  credit 
to  our  race:  General  Alaric,  Admiral  Hugh,  and  Bishop 
Cedric." 

"A  Bishop!  Aunt  Nancy!"  Anne's  eyes  wrinkled 
up  with  amusement. 

"Well,  he  was  a  very  unconventional  Bishop,  I 
believe, "  Mrs.  Egerton  admitted,  "but  his  flock  loved 
him.  The  Tudors  were  always  beloved,  no  matter 
how  wild  or  fierce  they  were.  Their  dependants  had  a 
sort  of  pride  in  them,  a  sort  of  feeling  that  they  were 
privileged  beings.  We  have  tamed  down  considerably 
in  this  generation,  but  I  believe  that  something  of  the 
old  fascination  remains." 

"To  judge  by  the  one  representative  that  I  have 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  163 

seen, "  said  Anne  softly,  squeezing  the  hand  that  lay 
on  hers. 

Mrs.  Egerton  completed  her  ellipse  with  a  pleased 
smile. 

"We  were  always  great  lovers,  fierce  fighters, 
staunch  friends,"  she  continued.  "Before  our  blood 
got  watered  down  with  respectability  we  were  great 
rascals,  too.  There  was  old  Squire  Godfrey,  of  Plas 
Tudor,  who  kept  the  hounds  in  his  day.  He  married 
a  very  beautiful  woman,  a  foreigner,  from  no  one  knew 
where.  Her  name  was  Hildis  Taron,  and  people  said 
that  she  was  a  Finn,  and  a  sorceress.  One  very  hot 
night  in  summer  a  guest  who  was  staying  at  Plas 
Tudor  complained  that  he  could  not  sleep  with  the 
noise  of  the  sea,  the  crash  of  breakers,  the  roar  of  waves 
upon  a  stony  beach.  Now  Plds  Tudor  was  thirty 
miles  or  more  from  the  sea,  and  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  hear  such  sounds  as  he  described.  Squire 
Godfrey  looked  across  the  table  at  his  wife  Hildis, 
who  smiled  and  said  that  the  great  heat  had  dried  her 
so  that  she  felt  a  need  of  moisture  throughout  her 
being,  and  that  in  the  night  she  had  been  making 
invocations  with  water,  which  had  doubtless  caused 
the  noises  he  had  heard.  The  guest  was  so  terrified 
that  he  made  the  first  excuse  he  could  to  leave,  and 
never  darkened  their  doors  again.  It  is  from  her 
that  we  get  our  black  hair  and  eyes,  people  say. 
Perhaps  it  is  from  her  that  you  get  your  affinity  with 
the  trees  and  water,  Anne." 

Anne's  eyes  shone.  "Go  on.  Go  on,  please. 
This  is  delightful.  A  Finnish  sorceress  for  an  ances- 
tress! I  wonder  if  I  could  make  invocations  with 
water.     How  do  you  do  it,  Aunt  Nancy?" 


164  Drifting  Waters 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  You'd  better  ask  Ricky. 
He  might  be  able  to  tell  you.  The  beautiful  Hildis 
died  of  a  mysterious  illness.  Poison,  some  say,  but 
it  was  more  probably  typhoid,  as  they  had  no  drains 
or  sanitation  in  those  days.  Squire  Godfrey  died  not 
long  after,  of  grief,  the  legend  has  it,  but  more  likely 
of  the  same  complaint." 

"Of  course  it  was  grief,"  said  the  romantic  Anne. 
"Don't  spoil  the  story.  Aunt  Nancy." 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  he  could  not  rest  in  his  grave, 
and  it  is  said  that  he  and  his  hounds  still  haunt  the 
Park  at  Plas  Tudor,  though  it  has  long  since  passed 
out  of  Tudor  hands.  They  left  two  sons — one  the 
anachronism  who  became  Bishop  Cedric  (that's 
Bobbady's  phrase,  needless  to  say!),  and  the  other 
the  wickedest  of  all  the  Tudors,  Squire  Dilryn. " 

"Dilryn!"  Anne  echoed,  with  a  sudden  memory  of 
how  she  had  called  her  hoop  Dilryn,  without  ever 
having  heard  the  name  before.  How  had  it  come  into 
her  mind?  What  an  extraordinary  thing!  Had  sub- 
conscious knowledge  of  it  lain  hidden  within  her  like 
a  seed  ready  to  spring  to  life  at  a  given  moment? 
What  other  surprises  awaited  her,  she  wondered  with 
an  inward  shiver.  Oh,  it  was  strange,  it  was  terrify- 
ing to  be  what  Aunt  Nancy  had  called  her,  a  Tudor 
sapling.  She  felt  at  the  moment  as  if  she  were  rather 
a  btmdle  of  Tudor  sticks  tied  together  with  the  string 
of  her  own  personality,  and  hated  the  idea. 

"Yes,  Dilryn,"  continued  Mrs.  Egerton.  "He  was 
so  wicked  that  no  Tudor  has  been  called  by  his  name 
ever  since.  He  drank,  cheated,  gambled,  and  com- 
mitted all  sorts  of  villainies,  none  of  which,  however, 
brought  him  within  the  reach  of  the  law.     People 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  165 

were  terrified  of  him  and  hated  him.  He  seems  to 
have  been  the  necessary  exception  in  the  family. 
When  he  died  the  weight  of  his  sins  was  so  great  that 
the  horses  were  unable  to  draw  his  coffin  to  the  church- 
yard, and  they  were  obliged  to  get  oxen  from  the  fields 
to  drag  it  there.  When  they  had  deposited  him  in  the 
family  vault,  the  mourners — purely  conventional  ones, 
I  imagine — returned  to  Plas  Tudor  for  cakes  and  ale, 
when  to  their  horror  they  found  Squire  Dilryn  sitting 
in  the  hall  before  them,  smoking  his  pipe!  They 
reasoned  with  him  and  told  him  that  he  had  no  right 
to  be  there.  He  swore  and  said  that  Pl^s  Tudor  was 
his,  and  he  flatly  refused  to  leave  it.  Finally  they 
brought  thirteen  clergymen  there  from  the  neighbour- 
ing town  (among  them  his  brother  Cedric),  and  after 
they  had  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards, 
Dilryn's  ghost  consented  to  leave  them  in  peace. 
However,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  they  got 
strong  chains,  and  chained  and  padlocked  the  coffin 
to  iron  rings  in  the  vault,  where  the  chained  coffin  may 
be  seen  to  this  day.  He  had  diced  away  all  his 
property,  except  Plis  Tudor  itself,  and  that  had  to 
be  sold  in  order  to  pay  his  debts.  After  that  we  fell 
upon  evil  days,  but  gradually  we  emerged  into  our 
present  condition  of  comparative  respectability." 

"And  Pias  Tudor?"  asked  Anne. 

"Plds  Tudor  is  more  or  less  a  ruin  now.  I  have 
always  wanted  Godfrey  to  buy  the  place  and  restore 
it,  especially  since  he  came  into  money,  but  he  says 
that  he  has  no  taste  for  archaeology,  and  that  he 
prefers  his  freedom. " 

"Freedom?"  murmured  Anne,  half  to  herself.  "I 
wonder  if  any  one  is  really  free?" 


1 66  Drifting  Waters 

Mrs.  Egerton  looked  at  her  askance.  Was  Anne 
getting  analytical  again?     It  really  would  not  do. 

"If  any  one  were  ever  free  he  is,"  she  answered, 
rising. 

"Oh,  no,  he's  not,"  said  Anne,  rising  too,  and  look- 
ing straight  at  Mrs.  Egerton  with  her  deep  grey  eyes. 
"He's  not  really  free  of  the  past,  or  my  mother,  or 
me. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  odd  child?"  asked  Mrs. 
Egerton,  taking  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"I  mean  that  as  long  as  we're  alive  we're  there," 
Anne  answered.  "There,  and— ^  Oh,  I  can't  explain 
what  I  mean,"  she  broke  off.  "But  I  needn't  go  to 
Damer's  Court  today?" 

"Want  shee  wheels  go  wound,"  quoted  Mrs.  Eger- 
ton.    "  Persistence,  thy  name  is  Anne. " 

"But  need  I?" 

"  No,  not  today,  as  you're  in  such  an  uncomfortable 
mood,"  Mrs.  Egerton  conceded,  not  at  all  sure  that 
she  was  wise  to  give  in  to  the  girl's  whim,  as  she  called 
it. 

Anne's  face  brightened.  "Thank  you  a  thousand 
times,  dear  Aunt  Nancy.  I  shall  have  a  lovely  after- 
noon. I'll  help  Matty  to  feed  the  chicks,  and  I'll 
take  Boris  down  to  the  lake  for  a  run,  and  I'll  listen 
to  the  fairy  music  dropping  from  the  laurel-leaf,  and 
then  I'll  come  back  and  give  Uncle  Robert  his  tea." 

"It  sounds  quite  a  nice  programme." 

"Much  nicer  than  watching  the  Damers  play 
tennis,"  said  Anne,  "or  creeping  up  to  the  edge  of 
their  invisible  barrier  and  trying  to  peer  over  it. " 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  that  you  are  rather  queer, 
after  all,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  shaking  her  head. 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  167 


Not  for  the  first  time  did  Anne  feel  a  pang  of  home- 
sickness as  she  ran  with  Boris  down  the  steps  of  the 
terraces  towards  the  lake.  She  wanted  to  be  out  of 
the  way  before  the  car  came  round.  For  some  un- 
known reason  she  shrank  from  Richard's  comments 
and  questions.  Her  feeling  towards  Lilias  Damer  was 
an  impersonal  rather  than  a  personal  jealousy.  She 
admired  the  older  girl's  beauty  without  bitterness, 
though  she  often  wished  with  all  her  passionate  young 
heart  that  Nature — or  the  all-pervading  Tudors — had 
seen  fit  to  bestow  a  like  loveliness  upon  her.  She 
felt  rather  as  if  she  had  been  holding  out  tentative 
hands  for  a  treasure  which  might  have  been  hers, 
and  that  the  other  girl  had  slipped  softly  in  and  taken 
it  before  she  could  grasp  it.  That  treasure  was 
Richard's  friendship,  with  its  shining  facets  of 
sympathy  and  understanding. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  in  Anne's  turbulent  thoughts, 
that  to  Lilias  it  did  not  seem  a  real  treasure  at  all.  It 
was  merely  an  attractive,  cleverly-fashioned  toy, 
which  she  had  neither  the  knowledge  to  appreciate 
fully  nor  the  wit,  Anne  felt,  to  retain  for  any  length 
of  time. 

Still,  that  the  period  of  retention  would  outlast  her 
visit  she  was  dimly  aware.  Also  that  the  "Damer 
whirl"  had  spoilt  her  holiday:  her  first,  delightful, 
real  holiday. 

Her  thoughts  turned  longingly  towards  Caroline 
Place  and  its  calm  routine. 

She  felt  for  the  first  time  as  if  she  could  understand 
something  of  the  motives  which  had  driven  her  mother 


1 68  Drifting  Waters 

to  seek  refuge  in  its  stranded  isolation.  Yet  even  there 
one  was  not  free.  People  sought  one  out,  disturbed 
one — she  kicked  a  pebble  that  lay  on  the  topmost  step 
and  it  shot  forward,  Boris  bounding  after  it. 

Beyond  the  last  flight  in  front  of  her  a  strip  of  green 
sward,  rush-fringed,  stretched  to  the  lake.  Boris 
leaped  and  played  with  his  pebble  on  the  daisy- 
powdered  grass.  At  either  side  stretched  the  terrace 
gardens,  gay  with  spring  flowers,  redolent  of  warm, 
bee-haunted  sweetness.  Above  the  lake  swallows 
swooped  and  darted  in  purple  flashes.  A  kingfisher, 
jewelled  in  turquoise,  perched  motionless  on  an 
overhanging  willow  branch.  Anne  watched  him  for 
a  moment. 

Suddenly  a  clear  whistle  sounded  behind  her — a 
little  melodic  phrase  which  Richard  had  evolved  out  of 
Grieg  and  his  own  inner  consciousness.  He  called  it 
the  "White  Chip"  motif  and  played  it  for  Anne  as  a 
greeting  whenever  she  found  him  at  the  piano. 

She  turned  sharply  when  she  heard  it.  Richard, 
tennis  racquet  in  hand,  with  an  overcoat  over  his 
white  sweater  and  flannels,  was  coming  down  the 
steps  after  her. 

For  a  moment  a  wild  impulse  towards  flight  seized 
her,  but  she  checked  it  and  stood  her  ground. 

"Well?"  she  said,  half  defiantly  as  he  came  near 
her. 

"  Well,"  Richard  returned  with  a  disarming  twinkle, 
"I  only  came  to  tell  you  that  I  was  sorry  to  hear  you 
weren't  coming  with  us  today. " 

"Oh,  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Anne,  bluntly,  turning 
away  her  head.  "You  can't  pretend  that  it  makes 
any  difference  whether  I  go  or  not." 


The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  169 

"Of  course  it  does,"  Richard  began. 

"How  could  it?"  she  retorted  hotly.  "Does  it 
give  you  any  pleasure  to  see  me  peering  over  the 
barrier?" 

"There  isn't  any  barrier,"  he  returned  gently.  "I 
see  your  little  elfin  face  all  the  time. " 

"All  the  time?"  Anne  raised  her  eyebrows  to  an 
arch  of  incredulity. 

He  reddened  a  little,  then  smiled  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  think  we've  all  been  beastly  selfish,"  he  said 
boyishly.  "Do  you  think  that  you  can  forgive  me 
and  let  me  make  it  up  to  you  somehow  when  I  go 
back  to  town?" 

"Are  you  going  back  to  town?" 

"Yes.  I'm  going  into  residence  at  Barny's  in 
May." 

"What's  Barny's?" 

"St.  Barnabas  Hospital,  ignorant  creature.  I 
thought  every  Londoner  knew  that. " 

"I'm  rather  a  mousehole  Londoner,"  said  Anne, 
melting  suddenly.  "I  only  know  my  own  part  of 
the  bam." 

"Will  you  let  me  show  you  some  of  the  other 
parts?"  he  asked,  releasing  her  hand  when  he  saw 
that  she  had  softened. 

Her  face  brightened,  then  clouded. 

"If  mother  will  allow  me,"  she  said. 

"I  will  call  on  your  mother,  if  I  may,  and  ask  her. " 

Anne  reflected  for  a  doubtful  moment  on  the 
possibility  of  Mrs.  Tudor's  denying  herself  to  him. 

"  Come  without  letting  us  know, "  she  said  suddenly. 
"Mother  doesn't  care  for  visitors  and  might  refuse  to 


170  Drifting  Waters 

see  you  if  she  knew  that  you  were  coming.  Come 
any  day  about  tea-time,  and  I  shall  see  that  Sabina 
lets  you  in. " 

"Good,"  said  Richard.  "A  plot,  and  involving 
the  incomparable  Sabina  too.  Nothing  could  be 
better." 

"Ricky!  Ricky!  I  am  waiting,"  called  Mrs. 
Egerton  from  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"Coming,  Nancy."  He  turned  for  a  moment  to 
Anne.     "You're  not  going  to  be  aloof  any  more?" 

"I  wasn't  aloof.     I  was  outside." 

"You  were  never  outside  with  me,"  said  Richard 
simply. 

A  light  sprang  into  Anne's  eyes  which  transformed 
her  from  the  pale  shy  girl  into  a  creature  glowing, 
vivid,  radiant. 

"Wasn't  I?"  she  breathed. 

"  Never, "  he  answered.  Then,  after  a  pause," Elfin 
Princesses  can't  always  mingle  with  the  common 
herd,  you  know, "  he  said,  and  ran  up  the  steps,  two 
at  a  time. 

The  sun  took  the  world  for  his  cup  and  filled  it 
with  wine  of  sunlight,  golden  and  vitalizing. 

A  blackbird,  perching  in  the  willows  and  showing 
densely  black  against  the  grey-green  foliage,  opened 
his  yellow  bill  and  filled  his  world  with  wine  of 
rapturous  song. 

In  Anne's  heart  a  bird  sang  also. 


CHAPTER  III 

DRIFTING  WATERS 


IT  was  Sabina  who  met  Anne  at  Waterloo  on  her  re- 
turn to  London — Sabina  in  a  new  coat  and  skirt  of 
the  neutral  browny-grey  tint  which  she  unbecomingly 
affected,  Sabina  with  a  bunch  of  vivid  cotton  violets 
in  her  winter  hat  in  compliment  to  the  arrival  of 
Spring  and  Anne. 

Her  plain  hard  face,  so  curiously  one  in  colour  with 
her  costume,  was  softened  with  anticipation.  Her 
usually  severe  lips  lengthened  in  a  smile  of  welcome  as 
she  ran  forward  and  caught  the  girl's  hand. 

"Wisha,  me  darlin',  'tis  I'm  glad  to  see  your  face 
again,"  she  cried.  '"Tis  more  like  a  year  than  a 
month  it  was  since  you  left  us." 

"It  is  nice  to  see  you  again,  Sabina,"  said  Anne, 
looking  about  her  with  an  odd  sense  of  the  unreality 
of  the  scene. 

She  was  inclined  to  agree  with  Sabina.  It  seemed 
much  longer  than  a  month  since  the  day  she  had 
parted  from  her  mother  on  that  crowded  platform. 

"  What  van  is  your  boxes  in?  "  Sabina  asked.  "I've 
got  a  porter,  that  is  if  the  young  fella  hasn't  given  me 
the  slip. " 

171 


172  Drifting  Waters 

He  had  not.  He  stood  in  the  rear  awaiting  in- 
struction. 

"There's  a  hamper  as  well  as  my  luggage,"  said 
Anne,  "and  a  flat  box  with  flowers  in  it.  I  believe 
Aunt  Nancy  would  have  given  me  the  whole  garden 
if  I  had  let  her.  There  are  chickens  and  eggs  and 
cream  and  a  few  forced  strawberries  for  mother. 
Vegetables  as  well,  I  believe.  A  real  country  hamper. 
Mother  will  love  it.  I  suppose  she  thought  it  would 
tire  her  too  much  to  come  to  the  station,"  the  girl 
ended  a  little  wistfully. 

She  had  hoped  to  be  greeted  by  her  mother's  face. 
She  felt  a  strange  hunger  to  see  her,  to  touch  her 
again. 

"I  wouldn't  let  her,"  Sabina  answered.  "Them 
stations  is  nasty,  draughty,  crowded  places,  not  fit 
for  the  likes  of  her  to  be  in. " 

"No,"  said  Anne.  Then  a  thought  struck  her. 
"She's  not  ill,  is  she?" 

"Divil  an  ill,"  returned  Sabina  cheerfully.  "She's 
well  enough  entirely — now." 

"But  has  she  been  ill?" 

"*Twas  the  way  she  had  a  little  turn  about  ten 
days  ago." 

"A  little  turn?  Sabina!  And  you  never  told 
me. 

"There  was  nothing  to  worry  you  about,  child. 
And  if  there  was  itself  'twas  the  way  she  wouldn't 
let  me  mention  it." 

"Was  it  really  only  a  little  turn,  Sabina?  She 
always  said  she  was  well  when  she  wrote. " 

"So  she  was  too,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  on  the  way  home.     Now,  young  man, 


Drifting  Waters  i73 

there's  plenty  of  room  for  that  cardboard  box  inside, 
and  the  hamper  too  for  the  matter  of  that. " 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  be  crowded,  Sabina. " 

"  'Twon't  crowd  us  any  more  than  two  other  people 
would,  and  'twill  save  fourpence." 

"What  does  fourpence  matter?"  said  Anne  a  little 
wearily.     "Let's  get  off." 

Sabina's  words  about  her  mother  had  roused  a 
pricking  anxiety  that  would  not  be  allayed.  She 
was  longing  to  start,  to  hear  the  truth,  to  feel  that 
she  was  on  the  way  to  her  again. 

"Now,  Miss  Anne,  those  weren't  the  ideas  that  I 
put  into  your  head." 

"No,"  said  Anne.  "They  came  of  themselves. 
Do  hurry  on,  Sabina,  and  let's  get  home.  I  want  to 
see  mother." 

"She's  looking  very  well  entirely,  now,"  Sabina 
asserted,  getting  into  the  cab.  "'Twas  only  a  little 
faint-like  she  was  one  evening.  There  was  a  job  we 
were  doing — I  won't  tell  you  about  it  as  'tis  by  way  of 
a  surprise  for  you — but  'twas  the  way  she  worked  too 
hard  and  overdone  it.  You  know  her  way,  Miss  Anne. 
Dashing  and  tearing  at  a  thing  like  mad  as  if  she'd 
never  know  peace  nor  ease  until  'twas  done,  and  then 
getting  tired  of  it  all  of  a  sudden.  Fortunately  we  had 
it  done  before  she  got  the  turn. " 

"Was  she  really  bad,  Sabina?  Had  you  the 
doctor?" 

"Yes.  I  went  in  meself  for  Dr.  Longlegs,"  said 
Sabina  disrespectfully.  "And  he  said  she  was  to 
stay  quiet  and  not  to  be  worried.  And  he  talked 
very  grand  about  cardiac  something  or  other,  but 
when  I  pinned  him  down  to  plain  EngHsh  and  not 


174  Drifting  Waters 

dixenary  words  he  said  that  her  heart  was  a  bit  weak- 
like,  and  he  sent  her  some  drops  that  she  was  to  take 
if  she  felt  any  fiutterings  or  feelings  like  that.  She's 
all  right  again  now,  child.  No  call  for  you  to  be 
uneasy.  'Tis  the  ha'porth  o'  difference  you  won't 
see  in  her  when  you  gets  home." 

"Oh,  Sabina,  I  wish  you  had  told  me,"  cried  Anne, 
clasping  her  hands.  "I'd  have  come  home  at  once. 
I'm  sure  she  wanted  me. " 

"Divil  a  want,"  said  Sabina  callously.  "She 
wouldn't  let  me  say  a  word  about  it.  By  the  same 
token  she  told  me  not  to  mention  it  to  you  at  all,  but 
I  said  I  would  whether  she  liked  it  or  not.  I  don't 
hold  with  treating  you  like  a  child.  Miss  Anne, 
especially  when  you're  not  a  child  any  longer." 

"No,  I'm  not  a  child  any  longer,"  said  Anne 
quietly.     "You  were  quite  right  to  tell  me,  Sabina." 

"'Tis  the  way  you're  much  more  of  a  young  lady 
now  than  when  you  went  away,"  Sabina  continued, 
secretly  delighted  to  have  Anne  for  a  listener  once 
more. 

"Am  I?"  said  Anne,  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
the  grey  sordid  streets,  the  smut-blackened  houses, 
the  orange-peel  in  the  gutters ;  and  feeling  caged  as  she 
had  never  felt  before. 

Town  was  close  and  airless  after  the  delicious  fresh- 
ness of  Trent.  The  sun  seemed  remote,  the  very 
sunshine  misty  and  dim.  Even  the  sky  did  not  look 
really  blue.  A  veil  of  London  haze  seemed  to  stretch 
thinly  over  it,  saddening  it.  The  new  green  on  trees 
and  bushes  looked  incongruous  against  their  black 
twigs  and  branches.  The  very  sparrows,  clustered 
thick  as  fruit  upon  an  old  elm-tree  that  was  just 


Drifting  Waters  175 

putting  forth  its  pale  green  blossom-discs,  looked 
sooty  and  dirty  after  their  clean,  brown,  country 
brethren. 

Anne  sighed  as  the  cab  drew  up  at  Caroline  Place. 

A  gust  of  wind  set  the  plane-tree  tassels  waving  a 
welcome.  A  burst  of  sunshine  smote  sparkles  from  the 
ripples  on  the  river  that  spread  in  the  wake  of  a 
flotilla  of  barges  with  painted  prows  and  slanting 
tucked-away  red  sails. 

The  same  sunlight  fell  upon  the  familiar  white  steps 
that  Mrs.  Nutkin  hearthstoned  so  beautifully  every 
morning,  with  a  touching  disregard  of  their  daily  flaws 
and  stains  and  markings;  upon  the  familiar  green 
door  with  its  brass  lion  knocker  and  bell  which  she 
polished  to  a  winking  brilliance ;  upon  the  long  shallow 
windows  of  the  sitting-room  from  whose  black  cur- 
tains flashed  an  incidental  twinkle. 

Anne  flew  up  the  steps  and  grasped  the  lion's  head, 
leaving  Sabina  to  deal  with  the  cabman.  She  was 
home  again.  That  was  all  that  mattered  for  the 
moment. 

The  door  opened  almost  before  the  knocker  had 
time  to  descend,  and  she  was  in  her  mother's  arms, 
half  laughing,  half  crying. 

"Mother!"  was  all  she  could  say. 

"Ah,  my  littlest!"  murmured  Mrs.  Tudor.  "It's 
good  to  have  you  back. " 

"The  cabman  wants  to  bring  in  the  boxes,  ma'am, " 
said  Sabina's  voice  behind  them.  "You'd  better  go 
into  the  sitting-room. " 

"As  tyrannical  as  ever,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  with  a 
smile  and  a  shrug.  "Come,  my  Anne,  and  let  me 
have  a  good  look  at  you. " 


176  Drifting  Waters 

"  I  want  to  have  a  good  look  at  you,  too, "  said  Anne, 
following  her  into  the  sitting-room. 


n 


"I  suppose  that  silly  old  Sabina  has  been  telling 
tales, "  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  as  Anne  stood  with  her  hands 
on  her  mother's  shoulders,  scrutinizing  the  beloved 
face. 

"I  should  think  she  had,  indeed,"  returned  Anne, 
warmly.  "What  did  you  mean  by  it,  may  I  ask? 
I'd  have  come  home  like  a  flash." 

"That  was  why,"  Mrs.  Tudor  said  softly.  "I 
didn't  want  to  spoil  your  visit.  Besides,  Nancy 
would  probably  have  thought  it  was  a  ruse  to  get 
you  back." 

"Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't,"  Anne  began,  then  stopped, 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied  with  my  appearance?" 
asked  her  mother  at  last. 

"  Perfectly, "  Anne  answered,  with  a  hug.  "  I  can't 
see  a  trace  of  difference  in  you  except  that  you  look  ten 
times  as  beautiful  and  twenty-ten  times  as  wonderful 
as  before  I  went  away." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  you  went,  then,  if  your 
absence  causes  such  a  marked  improvement  in  me. 
Did  Sabina  frighten  you,  my  littlest?"  she  asked, 
touching  Anne's  hair  tenderly. 

"Yes." 

"She's  an  old  silly.  I'll  tell  you  now,  Anne,  and 
then  we'll  dismiss  the  subject  for  ever.  I've  always 
known  that  my  heart  wasn't  very  strong,  but  it  never 
worried  me.  In  fact  I —  Well,  people  with  weak 
hearts  invariably  live  the  longest.     It's  a  case  of  the 


Drifting  Waters  177 

cracked  pitcher.  Dr.  Waldron  told  me  nothing  that 
I  did  not  know  already.  He  is  a  kind  creature,  very 
well-meaning.  He  gave  me  some  drops  to  take  if  I 
ever  felt  any  return  of  the  faintness,  and  said  I  was  to 
take  things  quietly.  Well,"  she  laughed  at  Anne's 
anxious  face,  determined  to  dissipate  the  fears  which 
clouded  it,  "I  couldn't  take  things  much  more 
quietly  than  I  do,  could  I?  You  and  Sabina  see  to 
that,  I  think.  That's  all.  Now,  Anne,  you're  not 
to  fuss  over  me,  or  worry  yourself  about  it.  I  won't 
have  it. " 

"Is  that  really  all?"  asked  Anne. 

"Really  all,"  answered  her  mother,  qualifying  the 
sentence  to  herself  with:  "All  that  you  need  to 
know. " 

Anne  still  looked  dubious.  Sabina's  elaborately 
careless  words  had  foreshadowed  something  heavier 
than  this. 

"What  a  doubter  you  are!"  smiled  Mrs.  Tudor. 
"I've  told  you  practically  all  that  Dr.  Waldron  said. 
He  used  some  technical  phrases  and  said  that  I  must 
not  do  anything  violent.  You'll  promise  to  restrain 
me  if  ever  you  see  me  inclined  to  violence,  won't  you, 
my  Anne?" 

"Yes, "  said  Anne,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Do  you  know  you  haven't  greeted  Ponsonby  yet, " 
said  Mrs.  Tudor,  turning  her  round. 

Looking  towards  Ponsonby's  stand  the  girl  gasped. 

In  her  anxiety  about  her  mother  she  had  not  noticed 
that  the  room  had  been  entirely  re-decorated  while 
she  was  away.  She  looked  around.  The  effect  was 
even  more  striking  than  before. 

A  grey  paper  had  replaced  the  cream  stripe,  a  plain 


178  Drifting  Waters 

white  frieze  the  wreaths  of  crimson  roses.  Carved 
chairs,  couch,  and  Anne's  stool  had  been  re-covered 
in  deep  violet  taffetas.  Vases  of  pale  pink  tulips  stood 
here  and  there,  and  Ponsonby's  crest  supplied  the  one 
touch  of  yellow. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Tudor  watching  her. 

"Yes.  I  think  so, "  said  Anne.  "Let  me  take  it  in. 
It's  all  so  startlingly  different.  Subdued  yet  strange 
somehow.  Only  for  the  tulips  it  would  look  almost 
— almost  like  a  room  in  mourning. " 

"£«  deuil  for  oiur  inniunerable  follies?  Well, 
perhaps,"  returned  her  mother,  "I  thought  I'd  like 
to  work  out  the  colour  scheme.  It  amused  and  inter- 
ested me  while  you  were  away.  But  you  have  no 
follies  to  mourn  as  yet,  Anne,  so  we'll  always  have 
heaps  of  flowers  to  mitigate  it  for  you. " 

"That  reminds  me  that  Aunt  Nancy  has  sent  you  a 
heavenly  boxful,  mother." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  her, "  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  stiffen- 
ing a  little.  "You  shall  show  them  to  me  after  tea, 
and  we  can  choose  which  will  suit  this  room.  One  has 
to  be  careful  with  the  grey  and  purple.  The  rest  you 
can  dispose  of  as  you  wish. " 

"  I  thought  that  Miss  Carmichael  and  Mrs.  Chal- 
font-Smythe  might  like  some,"  Anne  suggested. 
"Perhaps  M.  du  Savenay,  also." 

"Men  don't  care  much  for  flowers,  as  a  rule. " 

"Perhaps" — this  was  a  tentative  suggestion.  "Per- 
haps Mrs.  Waldron  might  like  a  few." 

Mrs.  Tudor  raised  her  brows.  There  must  be  no 
renewal  of  any  possible  intimacy  there,  no  reciprocity 
of  the  lilies-of-the-valley. 

"My  dear  child,  don't  be  absurd.     I  should  think 


Drifting  Waters  179 

that  Dr.  Waldron's  'grateful  patients*  keep  her  sup- 
pHed  with  as  many  flowers  as  she  cares  to  have. " 

"Aren't  you  one,  mother?"  asked  Anne,  with  a 
disarming  smile. 

"As  grateful  as  most  of  them,  I  suppose.  I  cannot 
imagine  that  impossible  person  as  a  flower-lover." 

"Very  well,  mother." 

"And  you  really  like  the  room?" 

"I  think  it  is  charming.  So  uncommon.  How 
uncomfortable  you  must  have  been  while  it  was  being 
done.  Ponsonby  is  very  silent.  Doesn't  he  like 
being  the  only  bit  of  yellow  here?" 

She  went  over  to  the  bird  and  talked  to  him,  tickling 
him  in  his  favourite  places. 

"Never  mind,  then,  he  shall  have  primroses  to 
match  him,  and  sulphur-coloured  polyanthuses.  He 
shall  not  be  a  solitary  touch  of  yellow  any  longer. 
But  it's  much  more  artistic,  bad  old  bird,  if  you  only 
knew." 

Ponsonby  erected  his  crest,  screamed,  and  made  a 
dart  at  Anne's  tickling  finger.  She  withdrew,  shaking 
it  at  him. 

"He  doesn't  really  like  me  one  bit,  mother,  after  all 
these  years. " 

"I  am  the  only  person  for  whom  he  cares,"  said 
Mrs.  Tudor.  "Give  him  to  me,  Anne.  He's  jealous, 
I  think." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Anne  unhooked  the  bird 
and  gave  him  to  her.  He  sidled  up  her  arm  until  he 
came  to  her  shoulder,  and  putting  his  head  close  to  her 
ear,  poured  forth  a  stream  of  guttural  complaint. 

The  familiar  enwrapped  Anne  once  more,  veiling  her 
absence  until  it  took  on  the  semblance  of  a  dream. 


i8o  Drifting  Waters 

Even  later,  when  she  and  her  mother  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  Mrs.  Tudor  asked  desultory  questions  about  her 
visit,  it  still  retained  that  dreamlike  aspect. 

"What  sort  were  those  Darners  of  whom  you  wrote? 
Nice,  ordinary  young  people?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  Anne  answered.  "Yes,  I  imagine 
that  they  were  just  that." 

"You  didn't  like  them?" 

"No." 

"That's  flat,"  Mrs.  Tudor  smiled,  holding  her  hand 
out  to  the  fire  and  drawing  her  purple  chiffon  scarf 
more  closely  round  her.  "Aren't  you  a  nice,  ordinary 
young  person,  Anne?" 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  not,  mother. 
They  thought  me  queer." 

"How  dare  they  think  you  queer?"  cried  Mrs. 
Tudor,  flushing  suddenly. 

"They  think  everything  queer  that  they  don't 
understand." 

"Ah,  that's  it,"  she  said,  her  momentary  energy 
fading.  "And  the  other,  Helen  Egerton's  boy — was 
he  also  a  nice,  ordinary  young  person?" 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  Anne. 

"What,  then?     Queer,  like  you?" 

Anne  hesitated.  She  was  anxious  not  to  prejudice 
her  mother  in  any  wise  against  Richard. 

"  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  Ricky  is  decidedly  not  ordinary. 
He  is  an  only  child,  like  myself.  I  suppose  only  child- 
ren are  different  from  families ;  are  they,  mother?  " 

"I  suppose  so, "  Mrs.  Tudor  answered,  regarding  her 
thin  white  fingers,  while  her  thoughts  rioted  round  a 
new  and  somewhat  disturbing  possibility.  "You  like 
him,  Anne?" 


Drifting  Waters  i8i 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  very  softly. 

Her  mother's  heart  contracted  when  she  saw  the 
look  which  stole  into  the  girl's  face  as  she  gave  her 
simple  answer.  She  thought  that  she  would  have 
preferred  embroidery,  though  had  Anne  shown  any 
enthusiasm  it  would  have  probably  roused  the  jealousy 
that  smouldered  below  so  shallow  a  surface. 

"What  does  he  do?  The  Asshetons  were  as  poor 
as  church  mice.  They  couldn't  afford  either  of  the 
services." 

"  He  is  going  to  be  a  doctor.  He  has  only  one  more 
examination  to  pass.  He  is  coming  to  town  next 
week,  to  one  of  the  hospitals,  St.  Barnabas.  He  wants 
to  come  and  see  you,  mother.     I  said  that  he  might." 

Anne  spoke  hurriedly.     She  wanted  to  get  it  all  out. 

"Oh,  Anne,  I  never  gave  you  permission  to  draw 
me  into  your  net,"  cried  Mrs.  Tudor,  wrinkling  her 
brows. 

"There  are  no  nets,"  said  Anne.  "You'll  like 
Ricky,  I  think.  He  is  funny  and  nice  and  under- 
standing.    He  plays  the  piano  beautifully. " 

"Defend  me  from  the  musical  young  man,"  cried 
Mrs.  Tudor  perversely.    ' '  Of  all  bores  he  is  the  worst. ' ' 

"I  don't  think  Ricky  would  bore  you,"  pleaded 
Anne,  seeing  the  door  close  against  him  with  every 
word.  "He  said  his  mother  often  spoke  of  you,  that 
you  were  one  of  the  romantic  figures  in  his  life. " 

"What  sentimental  impertinence!  How  dare  they 
discuss  me?  It  is  a  net,  Anne,  and  I  won't  be  drawn 
into  it. " 

"I'm  sure  they  never  meant  to  be  impertinent," 
said  Anne,  with  trembling  persistence.  Scarcely  a 
chink  was  left  open  now.     Her  ears  were  strained  for 


1 82  Drifting  Waters 

the  inevitable  closing  click.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to 
see  Ricky,  mother?     He  and  I  are  friends." 

Mrs.  Tudor  turned  sharply  on  the  girl  and  looked 
at  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  as  if  they  would  read 
her  very  soul.  Anne's  met  them  without  flinching. 
She  could  not  lose  this  chance. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  him  come,  mother,"  she 
pleaded.  "I  don't  suppose  he  will  want  to  come  often. 
He  will  be  busy  and  he  has  heaps  of  friends,  but  I'd 
like  to  see  him  sometimes." 

She  felt  a  sense  of  surprise  at  her  own  perseverance, 
but  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  hearing  that 
door  click. 

Mrs.  Tudor  still  looked  directly  at  her. 

"Anne,  if  this  young  man  comes  here  there  must  be 
no  nonsense  between  you." 

Anne  reddened  from  brow  to  chin,  and  her  eyes 
returned  her  mother's  gaze  with  a  spark  of  anger  in 
them.  It  seemed  as  if  there  was  some  want,  some 
flaw  in  Mrs.  Tudor's  attitude  towards  other  people, 
something  which  Anne's  clear  young  vision  could  not 
pierce;  something  which  almost  flecked  her  with  the 
mud-stain  of  vulgarity.  She  hated  to  think  that. 
Words  failed  her  for  the  moment.  Suddenly  she 
found  her  voice. 

"If  you  mean  real  nonsense  we  talk  little  else.  If 
you  mean" — distaste  at  the  phrase  almost  choked  her 
— "flirtation  or  anything  of  that  sort,  well,  Ricky  is 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Lilias  Damer.  I — I 
hate  you  to  talk  or  think  like  that,  mother,"  she 
broke  out  suddenly.  "Ricky  says  I  am  like  the  sister 
he  might  have  had  and  didn't,  and  I " 

"Yes.     You — ?"     Mrs.    Tudor's    words   fell    cool 


Drifting  Waters  183 

and  clear,  though  Anne's  vehemence  brought  relief 
to  her  mind. 

[    "I — oh,  I  think  him  quite  the  nicest  person  I  have 
ever  met, "  said  Anne  frankly. 

' '  Ever  met  ? ' '  Mrs.  Tudor  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
dawning  smile. 

Anne  knelt  at  her  knee  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
the  outstretched  hand. 

"You  surely  don't  mean  that  you  think  there  is 
any  possibility  of  comparison,  foolish  person?"  she 
murmured.  "You  sit  on  your  own  throne,  apart, 
unapproachable.  Everyone  else  is  down  below 
somewhere. " 

Mrs.  Tudor  patted  the  warm  white  cheek. 

"It  is  nice  to  have  you  back  again." 

Then  suddenly  she  capitulated. 

"Your  musical  genius  may  come  to  see  me  when  he 
likes,  and  I'll  try  to  be  civil  to  him  for  your  sake,  Anne, 
and  for  his  mother's.  Helen  Egerton  was  one  of  those 
gentle,  yielding,  foolish  creatures — but  I  don't  want  to 
think  of  outside  people.  They  irritate  me. .  They 
more  than  irritate  me.  They  frighten  me  a  little,  I 
think." 

"Nobody  must  frighten  you  while  I'm  here.  I  feel 
strong  enough  to  keep  any  one  at  bay. " 

"You  can't  keep  life  at  bay,  my  Anne,"  said  Mrs. 
Tudor,  with  a  bitter  little  smile.  "And  I  think  that 
is  what  I  am  really  afraid  of. " 

"But  you  mustn't  be  afraid  of  life,  dearest,"  said 
Anne.     "And  I  know  that  you  will  like  Ricky." 

"I  don't  think  I  really  like  any  one  in  the  world  but 
you,  Anne.  Certainly  for  no  one  else  would  I  do  this 
thing. " 


1 84  Drifting  Waters 

"You  axe  very  good, "  said  the  girl  softly. 

"Does  the  coming  or  going  of  this  youth  mean 
anything  to  you  really,  my  child?" 

"I — yes,  I  think  it  does,  mother.  Ricky  under- 
stands, "  she  said  again,  rather  hesitant  lest  she  should 
say  too  little  or  too  much. 

"What  does  he  give  you  that  I  cannot?"  cried  Mrs. 
Tudor  jealously.  "What  does  he  understand  that  I 
do  not?" 

"Only  foolish,  fairy  nonsense,  mother.  Trifling 
things  that  I  would  never  dream  of  bothering  you 
with.     We  just  laugh  and  are  silly  together. " 

Mrs.  Tudor  brushed  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  youth,  youth,  youth!"  she  said  in  a  very  low 
voice.  Then  she  put  her  hand  on  Anne's  shoulder: 
"A  wise  man  once  said  that  Youth  is  a  blunder;  Man- 
hood a  struggle ;  Old  Age  a  regret.  It's  a  hard  saying, 
but  true  of  most  of  us.  In  it  he  epitomized  me.  I 
don't  want  him.  to  epitomize  you,  Anne."  She 
pushed  back  her  chair  suddenly  and  rose.  "Let's 
go  to  bed,  and  get  what  beauty  sleep  we  may.  It's 
been  an  eventful  day  for  me. " 

"And  for  me,  too,  I  think,"  Anne  answered,  as  she 
kissed  her  good-night. 

She  felt  stirred  and  restless.  She  would  be  glad  to 
be  alone. 

Later,  in  her  bedroom,  she  went  to  the  window  and 
flung  it  wide,  leaning  out  upon  the  sill  to  inhale  the 
cool  night  air,  now  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  lilac 
from  the  dingy  back-gardens  below. 

The  veil  of  darkness  softened  the  crudities  of  the 
surrounding  houses  and  walls  to  a  black  serrated  bulk 
against  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky,  in  which  a  slip  of 


Drifting  Waters  185 

moon  hung  among  a  trail  of  stars.  Here  and  there 
the  blackness  was  pierced  by  an  orange  glow  from 
some  lamp-lit  window,  bringing  a  sense  of  watching 
humanity. 

Anne  looked  upward  at  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  the 
blue  dusk  of  the  sky.  The  same  glittering  wonders 
shone  over  the  lake  and  the  scented  terrace-gardens  at 
Trent — beautiful,  spacious  Trent — where  she  had  been 
at  once  so  happy  and  so  unhappy,  where  she  had  felt 
at  one  and  the  same  time  a  sense  of  freedom  to  spread 
wing  and  a  sense  of  being  captured  by  the  irrevocable 
past.  She  remembered  how  she  had  knelt  by  this 
window  on  the  night  before  her  departure,  and  won- 
dered what  lay  before  her.  Now  she  knew,  or  half 
knew. 

It  was  an  altered  Anne  who  knelt  here  tonight ;  an 
Anne  of  widened  vistas,  of  different  if  not  fewer  illu- 
sions; an  Anne  who  was,  as  Sabina  had  truly  said,  no 
longer  a  child.  That  was  the  chief  change  in  her,  she 
felt,  her  young  vision  stimulated  by  the  excitement 
of  the  day,  the  fretting  influence  of  the  unrest  which 
lurked  beneath  the  surface  of  this  quiet  little  house. 

She  did  not  trace  the  processes  of  the  change  in  her 
any  more  than  one  traces  the  merging  of  spring  to 
summer.  It  is  there,  subtle,  undefinable,  with  nothing 
to  mark  the  hour  of  going,  the  moment  of  coming.  If 
Anne  had  left  childhood  behind  on  the  day  of  Mrs. 
Egerton's  visit,  her  dormant  womanhood  had  stirred 
in  its  sleep  at  Trent,  and  there  was  the  dawning  of  a 
woman's  soul  in  the  eyes  that  looked  upward  to  the 
stars. 

Unrealized  by  herself  she  had  fought  the  first  battle 
of  that  budding  womanhood  tonight,  fought  and  won. 


i86  Drifting  Waters 

It  would  have  shocked  her  immeasurably  had  any  one 
hinted  at  the  glimmer  of  the  conquering  Tudor  pennon 
which  she  might  have  raised  in  triumph  on  the  two 
occasions  on  which  her  will  and  her  mother's  had 
clashed. 

All  she  realized  was  a  thrill  of  joy  that  she  was 
to  keep  her  friend,  a  sense  of  quickened  life,  of  open- 
ing vistas.  Suddenly  she  remembered  her  mother's 
words : 

"  We  cannot  keep  life  at  bay. " 

Did  she  want  to  keep  life  at  bay,  she  wondered. 
Did  she  not  rather  desire  to  respond  to  its  call,  to  hold 
out  eager  hands  for  its  gifts,  even  if  the  roses  had 
thorns  and  the  wind  took  some  of  the  blossoms? 

Could  one  keep  life  at  bay,  even  if  one  wished? 

Life,  Fate,  Destiny.  Were  they  not  one  and  in- 
divisible, to  be  eluded  neither  by  favour  nor  strategy? 
Lock  the  Princess  up  in  her  enchanted  tower,  and  at 
the  appointed  moment  the  Prince  would  find  the  key 
of  the  postern  gate.  Send  the  young  Heir  to  a  far 
country  to  avert  a  prophesied  evil,  and,  when  the 
hour  struck,  the  ground,  it  may  be,  would  open  and 
swallow  him.  So  say  the  fairy-tales,  and  in  every 
fairy-tale  is  the  germ  of  truth. 

Anne  felt  the  sap  of  life  rising  in  her  as  it  rose  in  the 
trees.     She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  unknown. 

What  was  the  world?  A  garden?  No,  that  was 
too  sheltered,  too  enclosed.  Rather  a  great  highway, 
with  room  for  all  upon  it,  which  wound  by  grassy  fields 
and  purple  shadowing  mountains  and  enchanted 
woods  and  running  waters,  whose  magic  was  all  for 
you  if  you  could  find  a  comrade  to  share  it  with,  into 
whose  hand  you  could  slip  your  own. 


Drifting  Waters  187 

Anne's  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  She  lay  so  still  that 
the  wings  of  the  bats  which  flickered  aimlessly  through 
the  night  fanned  her  cheek  with  wafts  of  cool  air. 

Dim  shapes  moved  stealthily  among  the  bushes 
beneath,  lithe  dusky  forms  that  seemed  like  wander- 
ing shadows. 

Suddenly  the  still  peace  was  shattered  by  an 
insinuating  contralto  wail,  which  swelled  to  a  barbaric 
crescendo  as  the  spell  of  the  night  and  the  proximity  of 
the  beloved  waxed  stronger  in  feline  breasts.  Echoes, 
fainter  but  no  less  insistent,  arose  from  the  neighbour- 
ing back-gardens. 

Anne's  dreams  took  wing. 

She  laughed,  rose,  pulled  down  the  blind,  and  went 
to  bed. 


Ill 


In  due  time  the  stars  in  their  courses  brought 
Richard  Assheton  to  Caroline  Place.  He  came,  saw, 
and  conquered — Sabina.  She  thought  him  a  lovely 
young  gentleman  entirely,  and  could  not  understand 
her  mistress's  chilling  indifference  to  his  many  and 
obvious  charms. 

Mrs.  Tudor  persistently  held  him  at  bay,  hiding 
the  personality  Anne  loved  behind  a  mask  of  bitter 
reserve  and  a  manner  chilled  to  an  icy  aloofness. 
For  a  long  time  Richard  tried  to  melt  the  one  and 
peer  behind  the  other,  but  all  in  vain;  and  at  last  he 
gave  up  the  attempt. 

His  whimsicalities  failed  to  please,  his  efforts  to 
conciliate  chafed  her  proud  embittered  spirit.  She 
saw  in  each  only  an  attempt  to  win  Anne  from  her,  to 


i88  Drifting  Waters 

take  from  her  something  of  the  one  being  left  to  her 
to  love.  She  did  not  know,  or  perhaps  put  the  know- 
ledge deUberately  from  her,  what  she  risked  losing  in 
thus  following  the  jealous  promptings  of  her  warped, 
self-centred  nature.  She  never  realized  that  a  liitle 
softening,  a  little  yielding  to  Richard's  tentative  and 
always  gentle  efforts  would  have  grappled  Anne  to 
her  with  the  hooks  of  steel  with  which  she  fain  would 
bind  her  child's  spirit  inevitably  to  hers. 

Nevertheless  as  time  went  on  Richard  won  some 
grudging  concessions.  He  was  allowed  to  take  Anne 
for  a  walk  occasionally,  unaccompanied  by  Sabina, 
or  even  to  take  her  on  some  rare  excursion  to  Kew  or 
Hampton  Court,  chaperoned  by  that  most  oblivious 
and  obliging  of  watch-dogs.  Now  and  then  Mrs. 
Tudor  accepted  tickets  for  a  concert  for  herself  and 
Anne  from  him,  and  she  sometimes  permitted  him  to 
take  the  girl  to  orchestral  concerts  at  the  Albert  and 
Queen's  Halls. 

"  Our  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  but,  praise  be, 
your  teeth  are  not  set  on  edge,  Anne, "  said  Richard  to 
her  as  they  walked  together  to  the  concert  which 
signalized  his  first  victory.  "I  am  very  sorry  for  your 
mother,  but  I  think  she  looks  at  everj^thing  through  a 
bit  of  the  demon's  distorting  mirror — the  one  that  got 
broken  when  he  was  flying  with  it  up  to  heaven  to  see 
how  the  angels  looked  in  it.     Do  you  remember?" 

Anne  glanced  uncomfortably  at  him.  No  one  knew 
how  much  her  mother's  attitude  hurt  her,  for,  with 
characteristic  pride,  she  bore  and  concealed  the  effect 
of  each  blow.  Even  now  she  advanced  a  shallow 
pretence  towards  Richard,  smiling  the  while  with  lips 
that  trembled. 


Drifting  Waters  189 

"I  think  she  likes  you  more  than  she  will  admit, 
Ricky. " 

"I  wasn't  thinking  about  her  attitude  towards  my- 
self, "  he  answered,  smiling  back  at  her  with  eyes 
grown  suddenly  tender.  "It  was  of  her  outlook  on 
things  in  general.  But  you're  wrong,  Princess.  She 
doesn't  like  me.  Why  should  she?  She  shows  her 
intelligence  in  not  doing  so.  I'm  rather  a  worthless 
individual.     Did  you  hear  that  I've  missed  my  final  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  poor  Ricky.  No,  I  didn't.  I'm  so  sorry. 
How  was  it?" 

"I  think  you  know. " 

Anne  looked  up  quickly. 

"Too  much  Lilias?"  she  ventured. 

Richard's  eyes  wrinkled  ruefully. 

"Too  much  Lilias, "  he  echoed,  hitting  the  kerb  with 
his  stick  as  they  walked  along.  "I  am  a  rotter.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  I  didn't  care  a  pin  for  her  really. 
It  was  only  the  outer  me  that  was  fascinated,  princi- 
pally by  her  colouring,  I  think.  That  exquisite  fair- 
ness casts  a  sort  of  spell  on  me.  It  is  irresistible.  I 
loved  looking  at  her  and  watching  her  prettiness,  her 
caprices,  her  coquetries,  but  the  Lilias  that  lay  behind 
them  never  really  touched  me.  She  never  once — I 
wonder  if  you  understand. " 

Anne  nodded.  He  found  her  silence  more 
sympathetic  than  words. 

"Like  most  girls  she  wanted  to  come  too  close.  I 
couldn't  stand  that,"  he  went  on.  "Now,  I'm  an 
egotistical  beast  as  well.  I  shouldn't  have  said  that. 
But  talking  to  you,  Anne,  is  almost  like  talking  to 
one's  self.  You're  different  from  the  rest.  You  never 
probe.     You  never  want  to  come  too  close. " 


190  Drifting  Waters 

For  the  moment,  though  his  praise  was  sweeter 
than  honey  of  Hymettus,  Anne  felt  that  she  was  win- 
ning it  under  false  pretences.  Although  her  own  fine 
sense  of  personal  reticence  forbade  her  to  probe  she 
knew  in  her  inmost  heart  that  she  did  want  to  come 
close,  so  close  that  there  would  be  no  room  for  any 
potential  Lilias  now  or  ever.  Her  pulses  beat  at  the 
thought  and  the  rare  colour  leaped  to  her  cheeks. 
She  looked  like  a  shrine  lit  suddenly  from  within. 

Richard's  eyes  were  elsewhere,  so  he  did  not  see  the 
illumination.  Anne,  as  a  woman,  did  not  exist  for  him 
save  in  so  far  as  her  sex  coloured  the  perfection  of  her 
attributes  as  a  confidant. 

The  perfect  confidant:  that  Blue  Bird  among 
companions  was  his.  Anne  spoke  his  language, 
understood  his  half-finished  sentences,  laughed  at  and 
encouraged  his  wildest  flights  of  fancy,  made  no 
intimate  demands. 

He  felt  a  sudden  elation  at  the  thought  that  he  had 
won  for  her  admission  into  the  world  of  music,  on 
whose  threshold  their  feet  now  stood.  No  jealous 
hand  should  bar  them  out  from  that. 

"You're  the  best  of  unofficial  sisters,  Anne,"  he 
said  with  a  swift  desire  to  pay  tribute,  "Now 
for  the  magician.  You  are  to  hear  not  only  the 
'Peer  Gynt'  Suite,  but  the  loveliest  of  concertos  as 
well." 

"And  you're  going  to  pass  your  exam,  next  time, " 
she  answered  unexpectedly. 

"Tiresome  creature,  don't  you  know  that  it  is  for- 
bidden to  talk  of  such  mundane  matters  here?  You 
mustn't  break  the  spell.  Your  mind  must  be  properly 
attuned.     You  must  think  of  nothing  but  the  old 


Drifting  Waters  191 

Cobold  and  the  Elfin  maids  with  their  shawls  of  mist 
and  moonshine,  and  the  snow  falling  on  the  fir-trees, 
and  the  ice-fields  glittering  by  torchlight. " 

Anne  smiled.     "Is  the  fir-tree  your  tree,  Ricky?" 

He  stopped  to  ponder  her  question  while  the  stream 
of  people  flowed  past  them. 

"A  Scotch  fir,  perhaps,"  he  said  at  last.  "They 
are  beautiful,  with  their  rough  red  trunks  and  thrust- 
ing blue-green  crests.  The  sight  of  them  against  a 
golden  sunset  or  a  clear  pale  twilit  sky  gives  me  a 
queer  kind  of  thrill.  I  love  them.  Yes,  I  love  soli- 
tary sorts  of  things  like  Scotch  firs,  umbrella-pines, 
palm-trees,  and  hansom-cabs." 

"Hansom-cabs!"  Anne  echoed. 

"Yes.  A  hansom-cab  has  a  beautiful  outline  and 
is  distinctly  a  solitary  sort  of  thing,  especially  now. 
In  a  few  years  it  will  be  extinct  and  then  I  shall  only 
be  able  to  cherish  its  memory.  Come  on.  Elfin 
Princess.     What  are  you  delaying  for?" 

Anne  smiled  as  she  followed  him  into  the  great 
Rotunda. 

An  unofficial  sister ! 

Well,  that  was  nearer  than  any  one  else  had  ever 
got,  on  his  own  admission. 


IV 


The  year  that  followed  was  one  of  the  happiest  that 
Anne  had  ever  known.  The  relations  between  her 
mother  and  Richard  sank  from  concealed  but  persist- 
ent warfare  to  a  sort  of  armed  neutrality.  If  Anne 
were  sometimes  uneasily  conscious  that  Mrs.  Tudor's 
weapons  were  never  out  of  reach  the  very  fact  of  their 


192  Drifting  Waters 

being  laid  down  at  all  gave  her  a  kind  of  negative 
pleasure. 

For  the  rest  she  was  young,  life  was  good,  each 
small  happening  was  an  adventure.  Richard's  occa- 
sional appearances  added  zest  and  colour  to  her  days. 
She  was  never  quite  sure  of  the  hour  of  his  coming  and 
that  quickened  expectation  with  the  spice  of  uncer- 
tainty. If  he  did  not  come  on  a  Wednesday  he  might 
appear  on  Thursday.  One  never  knew  and  that  was 
part  of  the  joy. 

Mrs.  Tudor  seemed  to  have  decided  in  her  own 
mind  that  Richard  was  harmless.  She  even  went  so 
far  as  to  call  him  "well-meaning,"  a  word  which  had 
been  hitherto  reserved  for  Dr.  Waldron  alone. 

Its  use  in  this  connection  pricked  Anne  to  hot  resent- 
ment until  her  sense  of  humour  came  to  the  rescue, 
and  suggested  that  the  term  was  probably  designed 
by  its  utterer  as  part  of  the  machinery  for  transferring 
him  to  that  far  distant  plane  to  which  she  would  trans- 
port any  man  who  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  Anne.  But 
Richard  was  not  so  easily  transported  as  Dr.  Waldron. 

"A  well-meaning  youth,  no  doubt, "  Mrs.  Tudor  had 
said,  with  half-closed  eyes,  "but  lazy,  and  a  hopeless 
detrimental,  of  course.  He  is  scarcely  the  sort  of 
person  to  inspire  a  grande  passion  in  any  maidenly 
heart,  I  should  imagine." 

"I  don't  think  he  has  the  faintest  desire  to  inspire 
a  grande  passion,  as  you  call  it,  in  any  one,"  retorted 
Anne,  with  unusual  warmth. 

"What  a  champion  you  are,  my  Anne,"  smiled  her 
mother  disagreeably.  "I  cannot  imagine  what  you 
see  in  that  very  ordinary  young  man.  You  never 
can  bear  to  hear  the  least  word  in  his  disparagement. " 


Drifting  Waters  193 

"He  is  my  friend,"  said  Anne,  witli  trembling  lips. 

"If  you  can  do  such  fiery  battle  for  a  friend  what 
would  you  do  for  a  lover,  I  wonder?"  Mrs.  Tudor 
spoke  as  if  the  subject  were  one  of  mere  impersonal 
interest. 

Anne  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  She  had  never 
touched  upon  the  subject  of  a  possible  lover  before. 
Any  reference  had  hitherto  skirted  the  topic  so  closely 
veiled  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible. 

"If  ever  you  marry,  Anne,  which  Heaven  forfend, 
be  very,  very  sure  that  you  choose  the  right  man. 
It  means  all  the  difference  between  shipwreck  and 
fair  sailing.  It  doesn't  really!"  she  cried,  sitting  up 
suddenly.  "What  folly  I  am  talking!  Putting 
ideas  into  your  head,  too." 

Anne's  heart  was  beating,  but  she  looked  question- 
ingly  at  her  mother. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  woman  who, 
when  she  was  going  out,  warned  her  children  that  they 
were  not  to  put  peas  up  their  noses?  They  would 
never  have  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing  if  her  fears 
had  not  suggested  it  to  them,  but,  of  course,  it  was 
the  very  first  thing  they  did  the  moment  her  back  was 
turned!     I  wonder  if  I  am  a  mother  like  that?" 

Time  was  when  Anne  would  have  flung  herself  at 
Mrs.  Tudor's  knees  and  assured  her  that  she  was  the 
most  perfect,  wonderful  mother  in  the  world.  Now 
she  only  smiled,  and  answered  quietly: 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be  afraid  of  putting  ideas 
into  my  head. " 

Mrs.  Tudor  looked  sharply  at  her. 

"Because  they're  there  already?     Is  that  it?" 

Anne  hesitated,  then  answered  frankly: 
13 


194  Drifting  Waters 

"Well,  mother,  I  suppose  ideas  of  that  sort  come 
into  the  head  of  every  girl  of  my  age." 

Mrs.  Tudor  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Don't  gild  them  impossibly  then,  or  wrap  them  in 
a  rosy  haze  of  delusion.  If  you  ever  contemplate 
marriage — though  who  is  there  for  you  to  marry  in 
this  backwater? — be  very  sure  of  one  thing,  that  the — 
man — "  she  uttered  the  word  with  a  choking  dis- 
taste— "is  the  only  possible  one  in  the  world,  and 
that  all  the  others  are  once  and  for  all  absolutely  out 
of  the  question.  But  by  far  the  best  plan  would  be 
for  you  not  to  marry  at  all.  Marriage  is  so  horribly, 
so  hideously  irrevocable. " 

"Had  you  no  happiness  out  of  yours,  mother?" 
Anne  asked  suddenly. 

"Mon  Dieu,  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Tudor.  "Three 
years  of  Paradise.  Fool's  Paradise.  That's  what 
I  want  to  save  you  from,  Anne." 

"Wasn't  it  worth  it?"  said  Anne  very  low. 

"Worth  all  these  burning,  aching,  desolate,  can- 
kered years?  Good  God,  no!  Anne,  Anne,  my  drops. 
I  feel " 

Anne  ran  to  catch  her  mother  as  she  wavered. 
Then  she  lowered  her  gently  to  the  floor  and  fled  for 
the  little  phial  which  was  always  near  at  hand. 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Tudor  revived  and  smiled  at  the 
girl's  tragic  face. 

"It  was  my  own  fault,  child.  You  mustn't  blame 
yourself.  I  should  not  have  raked  up  the  past.  But 
it's  always  there,  Anne.  Always,  always  there.  It 
has  me  in  its  grip  night  and  day.  I  want  to  save  you 
from  the  possibility  of  that,  if  I  can. " 

"Don't  worry,  darling,"  breathed  Anne.     "It  was 


Drifting  Waters  195 

my  fault.  I  am  terribly  sorry.  You  needn't  be  a  bit 
uneasy  about  me.  I  never  thought  of  marrying 
any  one." 

On  the  words  her  mind  turned  to  Richard,  who  was 
at  the  moment  embarked  upon  one  of  his  fleeting 
admirations  for  a  beautiful  Sister  Doris  at  Barny's. 
Who  indeed  was  there  for  her  to  marry? 

Mrs.  Tudor  put  up  her  hand  and  stroked  the  lines 
that  had  suddenly  etched  themselves  upon  Anne's 
forehead. 

"These  things  are  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  my 
littlest,"  she  said.  "I  am  a  fool  to  think  that  I 
could  forestall  or  interfere.  No  one  could  have 
interfered  with  me. " 

She  gave  a  hopeless  little  sigh  and  let  her  hand  fall 
weakly. 

For  months  past  she  had  slowly  but  surely  been 
casting  from  her  the  veils  in  which  Anne's  adoration 
had  enwrapped  her;  slowly  but  surely  undermining 
the  lofty  eminence  whereon  she  sat  enshrined.  To- 
day the  last  veil  was  rent  for  final  revelation,  the 
throne  tottered  and  crumbled.  The  scales  fell  from 
Anne's  eyes  also,  and  she  saw  into  the  very  depths  of 
her  heart. 

With  a  blinding  flash  it  was  revealed  to  her  that  she 
loved  Richard,  loved  him  in  the  way  of  her  mother's 
exhortation,  with  every  fibre  of  her  being.  He  was 
"the  only  possible  person."  In  that  sense  no  other 
man  existed  or  ever  could  exist.  They  moved  as 
phantasms  in  a  world  of  shadows.  Richard  was  all 
that  mattered,  that  gave  life  its  colour,  its  glow,  its 
meaning.  Truly  she  was  her  own  Tree  of  Knowledge, 
blossoming  quickly  towards  the  fruit  of  enlightenment. 


196  Drifting  Waters 

It  seemed  to  her  that  this  revelation  was  like  a  leap- 
ing flame,  whose  light  shone  upon  the  way  to  a  newer 
understanding  of  her  mother.  It  burnt  the  shrivelling 
shreds  of  illusion  and  disillusion  that  lay  between 
them,  and  showed  her  no  shrined  impossible  idol,  no 
throned  unapproachable  queen,  but  a  woman,  weary, 
warped,  bitterly  unhappy — a  woman  who  loved  as  she 
did,  "the  only  possible  person, "  and  who  ate  her  heart 
out  day  by  day  for  lack  of  the  man  whom  that  out- 
raged love  had  proudly  thrust  aside  from  her  for  ever 
— yet  out  of  her  life,  never. 

With  a  stifled  cry  Anne  flung  her  arms  round  her 
mother,  and  clung  to  her  with  all  the  passionate 
abandon  of  her  childish  days.  She  was  more  than 
half  woman  now,  but  it  was  only  the  appeal  of  the 
child  that  Margaret  Tudor  felt. 


Anne  hid  her  new-found  knowledge  deep  in  the 
innermost  recesses  of  her  being,  locking  it  there  in  a 
shrine  of  dreams.  She  looked  for  no  happy  issues. 
It  was  unlikely  that  Ricky  would  ever  care  for  her  in 
that  way,  she  thought.  Why  should  he?  But  it  gave 
her  a  secret  delight,  as  yet  untinged  with  pain,  to 
realize  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  could  spend  the 
treasuries  of  her  imagination  upon  him,  that  she 
could  weave  her  secret  dreams,  her  secret  joys  about 
him  without  harming  any  one. 

He  was  the  sun  that  shone  upon  her  life,  illumining 
the  empty  days  now  as  well  as  the  full  ones. 

Rather  to  her  surprise  she  found  that  it  made  little 
or  no  difference  in  her  attitude  towards  him  when  they 


Drifting  Waters  197 

met,  so  integral  a  part  of  her  being  did  this  new-found 
knowledge  already  seem.  At  the  first  sound  of  his 
footstep  she  felt  an  exquisite  tremor,  a  happy  confu- 
sion, which  merged,  at  the  meeting  of  hands  and  the 
sight  of  his  careless  vagrant  self,  into  a  still  happier 
consciousness  of  well-being.  To  be  with  Ricky  was 
to  feel,  as  she  would  have  put  it  to  herself  without 
romantic  embroidery,  that  everything  was  all  right. 
It  was  as  natural  as  breathing,  as  the  stars  at  night 
as  daily  bread,  as  any  homely  hourly  miracle  that  one 
accepts  without  the  gratitude  of  a  query. 

There  was  a  white  fire  about  Anne  these  days.  She 
walked  as  if  her  light  feet  were  shod  with  Mercury's 
wings.  She  was  more  patient,  gentler  with  her  mother 
than  she  had  ever  been,  for  at  last  she  understood. 
The  glory  that  lapped  her  from  head  to  foot  had  once 
been  Margaret  Tudor's — a  faded  glory  now  and  sadly 
tarnished. 

She  spent  a  fortnight  at  Trent  that  year,  but 
Richard  was  not  there.  The  place  was  redolent  of 
memories  of  him,  and  the  days  slipped  slowly  by. 
Uncle  Robert  and  Aunt  Nancy  looked  upon  her  quite 
as  a  child  of  the  house.  She  had  her  own  place,  her 
own  little  duties.  Everyone  made  much  of  her,  but 
she  drew  a  breath  of  relief  when  she  returned  to 
Caroline  Place  once  more. 

Summer  merged  into  autumn,  and  autumn  into 
winter  with  its  bare  black  trees  against  red  sunset 
skies,  and  its  long  nights  and  bitter,  wind-swept  days. 
On  and  on  went  the  wheel  of  the  year  until  it  turned 
to  spring  and  early  summer  again. 

On  a  certain  day  in  May  the  doors  of  St.  Barnabas 
are  thrown  open  in  hospitality  to  those  who  come, 


198  Drifting  Waters 

not  with  sad  questing  feet  in  search  of  health  or  rehef 
from  pain,  but  less  necessitously  on  the  invitation  of 
doctor,  nurse,  or  student. 

To  this  festival  in  the  palace  of  suffering  Richard 
had  invited  Anne. 

At  first  Mrs.  Tudor  demurred.  Then  she  consented 
to  let  her  go  if  accompanied  by  Sabina. 

"It  is  really  too  absurd,"  Richard  grumbled  to 
Anne.  "I  believe  that  you  are  the  only  girl  in  the 
world  who  is  kept  so  tied  and  bound.  And  I  am  such 
a  harmless  individual ! ' ' 

"You  are  very  fond  of  calling  yourself  harmless," 
Anne  retorted.  "It's  an  insipid  word.  I  think  you'd 
probably  rage  if  any  one  else  applied  it  to  you.  I  feel 
convinced  that  it  is  the  very  last  attribute  a  man  would 
be  likely  to  claim  in  reality. " 

"How  well  you  know  my  sex!  Of  whom  have  you 
been  making  such  an  exhaustive  study?  Is  it  of  the 
wretched  Waldron?  His  face  seems  to  grow  longer 
every  time  I  see  him,  from  looking  up  at  your 
windows." 

"No,  it's  not  of  the  wretched  Waldron,  as  you  so 
unkindly  call  him.     Sabina's  pet  name  for  him  is 
Dr.  Longlegs. " 
-   "Excellent  Sabina!"  Richard  laughed. 

On  the  appointed  day  he  waited  for  his  guests  in 
the  great  courtyard  of  St.  Barnabas,  now  gay  with 
pretty  women  in  summer  silks  of  dainty  airiness,  who 
stood  in  groups  or  couples  here  and  there.  Some 
talked  to  doctors,  frock-coated,  bareheaded;  others 
to  nurses,  whose  trim  cotton  frocks  and  demure  white 
caps  were  the  very  antithesis  of  their  own  fashionable 
vagaries. 


Drifting  Waters  199 

The  sun  shone  with  vigour,  accentuating  the  deep 
shadows  cast  by  archway  and  building.  A  warm 
breeze  fluttered  the  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the  courtyard 
making  a  dancing  mosaic  of  light  and  shade  upon  the 
stones  beneath.  It  ruffled  the  nurses'  tidy  hair  and 
set  plumes  and  aigrettes  a-waving.  It  was  a  light- 
hearted  wind,  a  holiday  wind,  that  seemed  as  if  it 
wished  to  bear  away  on  its  broad  soft  wings  the  very 
remembrance  of  pain  and  suffering  for  a  few  brief 
hours. 

Smart  cars  and  well-appointed  carriages  rolled 
through  the  great  gateway,  from  whose  shadow 
presently  emerged  Anne  and  Sabina  on  foot. 

Sabina,  in  her  stiff  "best,"  looked  hot  and  a  little 
cross. 

She  did  not  like  hospitals,  and  resented  being 
"dragged  here"  as  she  called  it,  on  the  afternoon  on 
which  she  always  did  her  " bit  of  ironing."  "As  if 
Miss  Anne  and  Mr.  Richard  weren't  quite  well  able 
to  look  after  theirselves ! " 

Anne  was  eager,  alert,  and  armed  cap-d-pie.  To- 
day she  was  to  see  the  place  where  Richard's  hours 
were  spent.  Today — pride  and  curiosity  pricked 
her  sharply  at  the  thought — she  was  to  see  the  beauti- 
ful Sister  Doris,  of  whose  golden  charms  she  had  heard 
so  much. 

She  felt  no  real  jealousy  of  Sister  Doris,  in  spite  of 
her  passionate  nature ;  only  a  sharpened  desire  to  see, 
to  know,  to  learn,  if  possible,  what  was  the  spell 
that  cast  its  gossamer  chains  about  him.  She  knew 
instinctively  that  Richard  gave  her  something  that 
none  of  those  others  had  ever  had.  She  knew  in- 
stinctively too,  that  whatever  happened,  she  must  not 


200  Drifting  Waters 

fail  him.  That  was  all  that  mattered,  she  felt.  For 
her  own  sake  as  well  as  his  she  must  never  fail  him. 
If  he  failed  her — well,  that  was  his  affair,  his  loss,  his 
lack,  rather  than  hers.  She,  in  her  love-quickened 
wisdom,  knew  what  love  demanded  of  her.  It  was 
the  real  thing,  the  royal  thing,  and  she  must  always 
carry  its  oriflamme  high. 

As  she  came  towards  him  it  seemed  to  Richard 
almost  as  if  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time.  He  noted 
afresh  her  light  buoyant  gait,  her  slim  dryad  grace. 
She  seemed  to  stand  out  among  the  stream  of  people 
flowing  in  from  the  street. 

She  wore  a  quaint  green  silk  coat  over  her  white 
gown,  and  her  hat,  which  shadowed  the  upper  part  of 
her  face,  was  simply  trimmed  with  a  wreath  of  green 
leaves  and  a  knot  of  black  velvet. 

Certainly  she  knew  how  to  dress.  Anne  at  nine- 
teen had  an  air  as  if  she  might  be  somebody,  he  re- 
flected with  a  little  thrill  of  pride,  as  he  went  forward 
to  meet  her. 

When  he  had  greeted  his  guests  he  asked  them  what 
they  would  like  to  do. 

"Sit  down,"  answered  Sabina  at  once.  "I  don't 
hold  with  people  peering  and  prying  into  hospitals, 
Mr.  Richard,  sir,  and  looking  at  places  where  they 
cut  off  your  heads  and  your  legs  and  takes  your  very 
insides  out,  as  I've  been  told.  How  do  I  know  they 
wouldn't  do  the  like  to  me,  once  they  had  me  within ! " 

"You  shan't  be  martyrized,  Sabina,"  said  Richard 
reassuringly.  "Would  you  like  to  sit  here  on  this 
seat  in  the  shade  while  I  show  Miss  Anne  over  the 
hospital?  Then  I'll  come  back  and  fetch  you,  and 
we'll  have  tea  in  my  ward  together. " 


Drifting  Waters  201 

"Mr.  Richard,  you're  a  rock  of  sense,  and  I  wish 
there  was  more  Hke  you, "  said  Sabina,  planting  herself 
upon  the  indicated  seat  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Do  you  think  he's  a  harmless  person,  Sabina?" 
asked  Anne,  with  a  glance  at  him. 

"Indeed  I  do  not,"  answered  Sabina  emphatically, 
as  if  the  question  were  an  insult.  "Mr.  Richard 
wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,  I'll  be  bound,  but  them  eyes  of 
his  wasn't  made  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  or  I'm  no 
Irishwoman." 

"Now,  Ricky,"  cried  Anne,  mischievously. 

"Now,  yourself!" 

"What  a  feeble  retort,"  she  laughed,  as  they  went 
up  the  steps  and  into  the  highly-polished  hall,  where  a 
faint  pervasive  odour  of  iodoform  soared  above  the 
homely  smell  of  beeswax.  There  was  the  scent  of 
perfume  and  powder  as  well,  as  the  endless  crowd  of 
visitors  came  and  went. 

It  was  good  to  be  alive,  to  be  young,  to  be  together 
on  such  a  day,  yet  the  spirit  of  the  place  hushed 
Anne's  joy,  as  the  shadows  of  the  great  hospital  fell 
dark  across  the  May  sunshine  outside. 

Richard  took  her  through  some  of  the  women's 
wards  first. 

Here  were  faces  pale,  faces  weary;  still  forms  lying 
prone  beneath  mysterious-looking  contrivances  de- 
signed for  the  alleviation  of  pain.  On  each  face, 
young  or  old,  suffering  had  set  her  seal;  yet  with  it 
she  had  bestowed  her  twin  gift,  patience.  For  these 
hours  at  least,  a  stir  of  quickened  life  flowed  through 
the  wards,  which  may,  perhaps,  have  acted  as  a 
temporary  anodyne. 

The  long  rooms  shone  with  cleanliness.     Brasses 


202  Drifting  Waters 

winked  at  one  almost  with  a  suggestion  of  impudence. 
Enamel  bedsteads  gleamed  above  the  highly-polished 
floors,  whose  surfaces  reflected  the  light  as  a  pool 
might.  White-capped  nurses  dispensed  tea  and  cakes, 
instead  of  medicines,  in  every  ward. 

On  sparkling  glass  tables  in  the  centre  were  flowers — 
flowers  of  a  beauty  ineffable.  Anne  hung  over  these 
entranced.  The  sadness  of  the  human  occupants  of 
the  wards,  their  pathetic  attempts  at  festivity,  the 
blue  and  pink  ribbons  tying  up  hair  and  nightgowns, 
smote  her  sensitive  heart  to  a  stillness  that  almost 
presaged  tears. 

But  the  flowers!  To  them  she  breathed  the 
messages  of  pity,  of  sympathy  that  her  lips  were 
too  shy  to  speak. 

Flaming  azaleas,  bluebells  brought  from  the  misty 
depths  of  far-away  beech-woods,  fragrant  narcissi  with 
their  thin  scarlet  crowns,  deep  purple  and  crimson 
anemones  with  powdered  blue-black  hearts,  and  tulips, 
tulips  everywhere.  White  as  egg-shells,  golden  as 
sunshine,  pink  as  dawn  and  roseate  as  day's  afterglow, 
here  they  seemed  to  lose  their  sentinel  straightness  of 
the  garden,  and  drooped  tenderly  from  the  tall  slim 
vases  as  if  instinct  with  the  pity  of  the  place. 

Richard  looked  at  Anne,  saying  very  little  as  he  led 
her  from  ward  to  ward.  He  saw  how  she  was  wrought 
upon.  How  a  tear,  which  she  skilfully  flipped  away 
with  a  finger,  rolled  down  the  cheek  nearest  to  him  at 
sight  of  one  of  the  tiny  patients,  an  infant  whose  first 
experience  of  life  was  to  come  to  this  vast  place  to  be 
operated  upon  when  she  was  but  twenty-four  hours 
old.     His  heart  went  out  to  her 

He  edged  her  past  the  crowd  which  swarmed  like 


Drifting  Waters  203 

bees  about  the  incubator,  where  lay  another  babe, 
sublimely  unconscious  of  its  spectators,  wrapped  in  a 
Buddha-like  calm  and  a  martial  scarlet  cape. 

"Anne,  is  this  too  much  for  you?"  he  asked  at  last. 

She  turned  a  face  towards  him  that  tried  to  smile, 
but  failed  lamentably. 

"Ricky,  I  feel — I  feel  that  we  oughtn't  to  be  here. 
It's  horrible  of  us  to  intrude  on  the  privacy  of  their 
pain,  to  come  and  stare  and  wander  past  their  beds 
out  of  sheer,  heartless  curiosity.  We  oughtn't  to  do  it, 
Ricky.  It's  like  making  a  show  out  of — out  of  suffer- 
ing.    It's  not  fair.     It's — odious  of  us. " 

"My  dear  child,  you  mustn't  feel  like  that,"  said 
Richard  very  gently.  ' '  One  patient  in  a  hundred  may 
perhaps  resent  it,  but  the  others  are  all  full  of  interest 
and  curiosity.  It  will  give  them  food  for  conversa- 
tion for  days.     They  really  enjoy  it,  Anne. " 

"But  the  hundredth  person?"  she  said  softly. 

"I'm  afraid  the  hundredth  person  nearly  always 
gets  the  worst  of  it.  It's  better  to  belong  to  the 
majority,"  he  answered,  wrinkling  his  eyes  at  her. 
"Here  we  are  at  my  special  ward  now.  I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  Sister  Doris.  I  will  leave  you  with 
her  while  I  go  to  fetch  Sabina,  and  we  shall  all  have 
tea  together  then. " 

She  put  out  a  tentative  hand  of  protest,  but  he 
did  not  notice  it.  In  a  moment  he  had  effected  the 
introduction  and  left  the  two  together. 

Anne  saw  a  tall  girl  built  on  generous  lines,  with 
blue  eyes  and  a  mist  of  ruddy  golden  hair  beneath  her 
stiff  white  cap.  She  had  a  complexion  of  cream  and 
roses,  and  she  looked  rather  inquiringly  at  Anne  as 
she  took  her  slim  fingers  in  a  strong  purposeful  grasp. 


204  Drifting  Waters 

"Is  this  your  first  visit  to  a  hospital,  Miss  Tudor?" 
she  asked. 

She  was  eminently  at  her  ease.  This  was  her  own 
ground  and  her  very  air  expressed  the  fact. 

"Yes,"  Anne  answered  baldly. 

The  departure  of  Ricky  seemed  to  have  bereft  her  of 
speech.  She  felt  oddly  shy,  oddly  out  of  place  beside 
this  handsome,  capable  girl,  who  regarded  her  with 
a  cool,  smiling  curiosity,  as  if  she  were  some  strange 
specimen  from  another  world. 

"It  must  all  seem  queer  to  you,"  Sister  Doris 
continued.  "Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  some- 
thing about  the  different  cases. " 

There  was  nothing  that  Anne  desired  less,  but  polite- 
ness forced  a  "Thank  you "  from  her,  and  she  followed 
the  erect  form  of  Sister  Doris  down  the  room. 

It  was  a  ward  for  men,  most  of  whom  looked  cheer- 
ful enough  and  ready  to  return  Anne's  shy  smile  and 
faltered  words  of  sympathy.  From  one  or  two  faces 
reason  seemed  to  have  fled,  and  here  and  there  lay  a 
motionless  bandaged  form  unconscious  alike  of  the 
familiar  presence  of  the  nurses,  or  the  unfamiliar 
presence  of  the  visitors  with  their  softly  rustling 
garments  and  tapping  heels. 

From  bed  to  bed  went  Sister  Doris,  giving  a  brief 
resume  of  the  principal  features  of  each  case,  with  a 
calm  disregard  of  the  patient  which  Anne  thought 
surprisingly  callous.  To  some  she  spoke:  others  she 
merely  described. 

Where  was  her  charm?  Anne  wondered.  What 
was  there  in  her  besides  her  wonderful  colouring  that 
appealed  to  Ricky?  Then  it  came  to  her  that  this 
girl's  life  touched  Ricky's  at  a  point  where  he  and 


Drifting  Waters  205 

Anne  never  came  in  contact — his  work,  which  ab- 
sorbed the  greater  part  of  his  days.  She,  Anne,  was 
only  on  the  fringe;  this  girl  stood  already  at  the  core. 
Besides  her  personal  beauty  she  had  the  beauty  of 
capability,  of  efficiency,  an  attribute  which  Richard's 
vagrant  mind  held  in  profoundest  admiration.  Anne 
was  quite  ready  to  admit  her  claim  on  those  grounds. 
Capacity,  courage,  self-confidence  were  expressed  in 
every  line,  in  every  gesture,  in  every  cool  technical 
phrase  that  came  from  her  well-cut  lips. 

But  the  spirit  of  her,  the  essence?  Anne  could  in 
no  wise  sense  that.  Nothing  in  Sister  Doris  drew  re- 
sponse from  her.  She  could  only  make  bald  comments 
or  give  a  stark  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  to  her  remarks.  Sister 
Doris  chilled  her  as  the  Damers  had  done.  She  was 
painfully  aware  that  she  must  be  one  of  those  most 
pitiable  "hundredth  persons"  of  whom  she  and 
Ricky  had  spoken;  that  the  fault  must  lie  somewhere 
in  herself. 

In  the  beds  on  either  side  of  a  window  were  two 
little  boys. 

One,  a  bright,  snub-nosed  urchin,  thrust  a  toy 
towards  Anne  and  asked  her  to  wind  it  up  for  him. 

"That's  Billy's  new  treasure,"  said  Sister  Doris- 
"Lady  Cokeley's  just  given  it  to  him.  She  brought 
a  toy  for  each  of  the  kiddies  today.  She's  awfully 
good." 

"She  must  be,"  Anne  returned,  winding  up  the 
toy  and  putting  it  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  dancing 
man,  which  flung  out  arms  and  legs  in  jerky  grotesque 
movements  as  it  twitched  about  between  the  beds. 

Billy  laughed  heartily,  and  Anne  laughed  too. 

"Don't  you  know  who  Lady  Cokeley  is?"  Sister 


2o6  Drifting  Waters 

Doris  continued.  "She's  the  wife  of  Sir  Elwin  Coke- 
ley,  the  surgeon.  Floating  kidney  is  his  specialty, 
of  course,  but  he's  awfully  good  at  other  things  as 
well." 

Anne  felt  a  qualm  of  nausea  as  she  moved  across  to 
the  other  bed,  where  a  pale  solemn  little  boy  was  trying 
to  hook  together  the  carriages  of  a  tin  train  at  the 
wrong  end  with  a  pathetic  and  ineffectual  persistence. 

"Perhaps  I  can  do  that  for  you,"  she  said  softly, 
taking  the  toy  train  from  the  weak  white  hands. 

She  hooked  the  carriages  together  and  turned  the 
box  and  lid  upside  down  to  make  a  railway  for  him, 
but  no  smile  came  to  the  pale  lips. 

"  Thomas  is  a  very  stodgy  child.  He  never  smiles, " 
said  Sister  Doris.  "He's  got  hip  disease,  but  not  too 
badly.     Billy  is  paralysed  in  both  legs. " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Richard  entered  the 
ward  with  Sabina. 

Looking  down  between  the  rows  of  beds  he  saw  the 
two  girls  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  Neither  was 
aware  of  his  coming. 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  slanted  through  the  window  and 
fell  across  them.  It  seemed  to  detach  them  from  the 
rest  of  the  room,  which  was  half  barred  with  shadows 
from  wall  or  bed,  half  filled  with  the  softened  evening 
radiance,  across  which  this  one  ray  struck  brightly. 

It  turned  Sister  Doris's  hair  to  a  burnished  nimbus. 
It  accentuated  the  long  beautiful  line  of  Anne's  figure, 
as  she  bent  over  the  melancholy  Thomas. 

As  once  before  today  Richard  seemed  to  have  a 
new  vision  of  Anne,  a  revelation  of  something  fine  and 
rare  and  exquisite.  Beside  her  Sister  Doris  looked  like 
a  pink  peony  near  a  wood  anemone,  a  common  mortal 


Drifting  Waters  207 

near  an  Elfin  Princess.  Any  charm  she  might  once 
have  held  for  him  vanished  for  ever. 

During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  he  cast  frequent 
glances  at  his  Elfin  Princess,  as  if  at  some  wonderful 
new  discovery.  How  was  it  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  thus  before,  he  wondered.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
sudden  accession  of  spirits,  an  elation  that  fused  the 
incongruous  elements  and  carried  the  little  tea-party 
to  a  successful  conclusion. 

Yet  Anne  did  not  look  even  pretty.  Her  face  was 
very  white  and  tired,  and  there  were  dark  shadows 
beneath  the  eyes  that  met  Richard's  with  a  smiling 
tranquillity. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  a  desire  to  evoke  something 
different  from  that  calm  regard  in  those  dark  clear 
eyes.  That  they  could  sparkle  and  shine,  he  was 
well  aware,  that  they  could  melt  softly,  he  also  knew, 
but  he  felt  a  swift  new  desire  to  banish  the  known, 
the  explored,  and  evoke — what?  He  scarcely  knew 
himself. 

Once  his  regard  seemed  to  pierce  the  tranquillity, 
awakening  a  startled  glance  of  liquid  fire  from  Anne; 
but  when  he  looked  again  her  white  lids  had  dropped, 
and  the  next  time  he  met  her  gaze  it  held  only  its  old 
sweet  friendliness.  He  must  have  been  mistaken,  he 
thought. 

He  teased  Sabina,  offering  to  take  her  over  the 
Pathological  Museum  with  its  grim  glass  jars  full  of 
nightmare  forms  and  growths,  and  insisted  on  making 
her  peep  into  one  of  the  operating  theatres. 

"You  must  see  something  as  you  are  here,"  he 
said. 

Timidly  she  peered  into  the  spotless  shining  place, 


2o8  Drifting  Waters 

which  glistened  with  glass  and  brass  and  silver,  and  the 
snowy  polish  of  white  tiles;  peered  at  the  powerful 
lights  for  night  work  and  the  rubber-castored  glass 
tables,  curved  and  oblong,  which  held  the  panoply 
of  the  surgeon's  trade;  peered  and  shuddered  at  the 
sight. 

"A  cold-blooded  place,  I  call  it,"  she  said.  "It 
fair  gives  me  the  shivers.  Let  me  out  of  it,  Mr. 
Richard,  for  the  love  of  heaven. " 

"Tastes  differ,  as  well  as  doctors,  Sabina, "  he  said, 
taking  her  by  the  arm  and  leading  her  outside  to  where 
Anne  awaited  them.  "Many  people  would  die  if  it 
were  not  for  that  cold-blooded  place,  as  you  call  it. 
Now,  I'm  going  to  put  you  and  Miss  Anne  in  a  taxi 
and  send  you  home.  She  looks  tired.  You've  both 
had  enough  of  it,  I  think. " 

When  he  had  put  them  into  the  cab  he  stood  by  the 
door  holding  Anne's  hand  for  a  moment. 

"Anne,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  quickly  at  him. 
Something  in  his  tone  startled  her. 

He  drew  away,  relinquishing  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I've  forgotten  what  it  was  that 
I  wanted  to  say. " 

"Ricky,  that's  a  very  annoying  trick." 

The  evening  sun  fell  upon  him  out  there  in  the 
street,  as  it  had  fallen  upon  her  in  the  ward  upstairs, 
detaching  him  from  the  crowd  which  clustered  round 
the  hospital  gates,  emphasizing  his  youth  and  strength 
and  comeliness. 

"I'm  an  annoying  person  altogether,  I'm  afraid," 
he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "You  have  great  patience 
with  me,  you' — Elfin  Princess." 


Drifting  Waters  209 

He  gave  the  address  to  the  man,  and  patted  the 
white-gloved  hand  that  lay  on  the  door  of  the  cab. 

As  Anne,  on  an  impulse,  leaned  out  to  wave  farewell 
he  was  still  standing  there  among  the  crowd  of  curious 
sightseers,  with  the  sunlight  on  his  bare  head.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  through  the  whirring  of  the  taxi 
she  heard  him  whistle  the  "White  Chip"  motif,  clear 
and  sweet  as  a  bird's  pipe.  She  smiled,  but  suddenly 
the  tears  came  welling  to  her  eyes. 
14 


CHAPTER  IV 

YOUNG  lilAGIC 


ANNE  did  not  see  Richard  for  some  time  after  her 
visit  to  St.  Barnabas,  and  the  depression  which 
had  seized  upon  her  then  lingered  unaccountably  with 
her.  Not  even  the  soft  warmth  of  the  air,  and  the  steal- 
ing enchantment  of  "  the  sweet  o'  the  year  "  could  quite 
dispel  it.  Yet  nothing  had  changed;  life  ran  in  its 
accustomed  channels;  there  was  no  real  reason  for 
this  clouding  of  the  spirit,  and  yet — the  glory  of  her 
love  seemed  to  be  a  little  dimmed.  The  knowledge  of 
it  was  no  longer  all-sufficient.  Could  it  be  that  she 
began  to  hunger  for  some  response,  that  she  was  no 
longer  content  merely  to  give,  that  she  wanted  to 
receive  as  well?  Such  thoughts  betokened  a  flaw. 
Her  love  was  not  the  perfect  thing  she  had  deemed  it 
in  her  first  pride  of  knowledge.  Was  she  to  fail,  then, 
at  the  very  outset?  This  teasing,  fretting  fear  buzzed 
persistently  about  her  days. 

Sister  Doris,  also,  in  ceasing  to  be  the  haunting 
abstraction  of  former  times  had  crystallized  into  fact ; 
somewhat  unpalatable  fact,  too,  as  Anne  was,  in 
honesty,  bound  to  admit. 

A  faint  sense  of  disappointment  in  Richard  helped 

2IO 


Young  Magic  211 

to  deepen  the  half-admitted  feeling  of  depression — 
disappointment  that  this  golden-haired  wonder  of 
whom  she  had  heard  so  much,  who  was  at  once  so 
beautiful,  so  capable,  so  eminently  the  right  person  in 
the  right  place,  was  but  an  ordinary  young  woman 
after  all,  with  neither  the  wings  nor  the  halo  with 
which  Anne  had  wistfully  invested  her. 

So  very  ordinary  too!  There  lay  the  sting.  She 
did  not  own  the  grace  or  the  breeding  of  Lilias  Damer 
even.  Her  feet  were  upon  the  solid  earth,  which  shook 
as  she  moved,  Anne  thought  for  a  petulant  moment. 

No  goddess,  no  marvel,  just  a  mere,  ordinary, 
commonplace  young  woman. 

That  thought,  instead  of  comforting,  hurt  oddly, 
hurt  abominably,  Anne  felt  in  the  depth  of  her  proud 
undisciplined  heart.  It  seemed  to  argue  a  lack  of  that 
fineness  of  perception,  that  fastidiousness  of  spirit 
which  in  Richard  had  so  pleased  her  own  eclectic 
taste. 

From  the  angle  of  her  own  emotions  she  exaggerated 
the  importance  of  his  attitude  towards  the  other  girl. 
He  had  spoken  of  her  beauty,  which  was  undeniable, 
in  his  vivid  way,  had  praised  her  proficiency,  her 
strength,  her  courage,  her  patience,  but  no  more.  Of 
mental  communion  he  had  said  nothing.  The  exigen- 
cies of  their  work,  while  it  threw  them  together,  gave 
but  little  opportunity  of  exploration  in  that  field. 

Anne  did  not  realize  this. 

Therefore  she  wove  unnecessary  shirts  of  nettle  for 
her  own  foolish  shoulders. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  sat  at  the  piano  in  the  dining- 
room,  restlessly  trying  one  thing  after  another  to  see 
if  she  could  find  something  to  suit  her  mood. 


212  Drifting  Waters 

It  had  rained  all  day.  Heavy  drops  dripped  from 
the  eaves  upon  the  sill  and  pattered  on  the  green 
leaves  of  the  lilac-bushes.  A  trickle  ran  from  the 
shoot  into  the  water-butt  beneath  the  window,  trip- 
ping and  tinkling  like  a  town  imitation  of  her  laurel-leaf 
cascade  at  Trent. 

The  remembrance  was  too  much  for  her.  It 
brought  the  real  things,  the  restless  things,  too  close. 

She  hastily  plunged  into  a  Chopin  Polonaise,  so 
full  of  fire  and  fury  that  it  hid  the  sound  of  the  open- 
ing hall-door  and  the  tread  of  steps  into  the  sitting- 
room.  She  attacked  each  repeat  with  vigour,  as  if 
to  lash  her  spirit  from  its  depression  with  the  sheer 
force  of  its  passionate  strength.  Thus  it  was  that  she 
lost  the  sound  of  Richard's  entrance,  and  was  not 
aware  of  him  until  he  stood  at  her  side. 

Her  hands  fell  from  the  keys.  She  had  not 
expected,  nor  desired  even,  to  see  him  at  this 
hour. 

' '  Ricky !  How  you  startled  me ! "  she  cried,  turning 
very  white. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "I  made 
quite  a  lot  of  noise,  I  assure  you,  but  I  suppose  that 
nothing  could  penetrate  that  tornado  of  Chopin." 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  her.  She  put  hers  into 
them.  He  pulled  her  up  gently  from  the  music-stool 
and  held  her  there,  facing  him. 

As  she  looked  at  him  the  old  feeling  of  well-being 
that  his  actual  presence  always  induced  stole  slowly 
back  to  her,  banishing  the  subtle  unrest. 

He  seemed  moved,  quickened,  somehow.  There  was 
a  hint  of  laughing  triumph  about  his  eyes  and  mouth 
that  was  new  to  her.     For  an  instant  she  thrilled  in 


Young  Magic  213 

response;  then  her  heart  contracted.  What  had 
he  to  tell  her?  Was  it  something  she  could  not 
bear? 

"Ricky,  what  is  it?"  she  cried,  tightening  her  clasp 
upon  the  hands  that  held  hers. 

"News!     Great  news,  Anne. " 

"Yes.  Yes.  What  is  it?  Don't  tease,"  she  said 
impatiently. 

"I've  passed  my  exam.  I've  come  out  second," 
he  answered  joyfully. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  silent,  rendered  speech- 
less by  the  swift  rush  of  relief  from  she  knew  not 
what. 

"Aren't  you  pleased,  Anne?"  A  faint  disappoint- 
ment rang  in  his  tone.  This  was  not  the  reception 
he  had  pictured  for  his  news. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  know  I  am,"  cried  Anne  softly. 
"You  took  my  breath  away  for  a  moment.  That  was 
all.  I  am — I  am  delighted,  Ricky."  She  lifted  the 
hand  which  held  her  right  hand  and  touched  it  with  her 
cheek  for  a  fleeting  moment. 

Brief  as  the  caress  was  it  sent  a  fire  through  Rich- 
ard's veins.  He  stooped  and  kissed  the  hand  that  had 
honoured  him. 

"My  accolade,  Elfin  Princess,"  he  said,  rather 
huskily.  Then  with  a  rettun  to  his  old  manner,  "I 
wanted  to  tell  you  first. " 

"Did  you  really?  How  nice  of  you,  Ricky.  Am 
I  really  the  first  to  know?" 

She  moved  towards  the  window,  trembling  a  little, 
saying  the  first  words  that  came  into  her  head  lest 
confusion  should  take  her  in  its  grip. 

He  followed  her,  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  looking 


214  Drifting  Waters 

down  on  the  bent  head  round  which  the  thick  black 
plaits  were  coiled. 

"All  but, "  he  rejoined.  "  I  wired  to  my  mother  and 
Nancy  on  my  way  here,  and  as  Sabina  tactlessly  thrust 
me  in  upon  Mrs.  Tudor  at  the  moment  of  my  arrival, 
I  had  to  tell  her  the  news  as  an  excuse  for  my  presence 
at  so  unseemly  an  hour. " 

"  It's  not  an  unseemly  hour, "  said  Anne,  still  looking 
away. 

"Six  o'clock.     My  dear  Anne!" 

"What's  wrong  with  six  o'clock?"  said  Anne,  rather 
incoherently. 

"Your  mother  doesn't  approve  of  it.  Poor  six 
o'clock!  Her  eyebrows  went  up  a  fraction  when  she 
saw  me,  and  she  greeted  me  with  that  curious  frozen 
smile  of  hers.     You  know. " 

Anne  nodded.     She  knew  only  too  well. 

"I  blurted  out  my  news.  She  didn't  seem  particu- 
larly interested,  but  very  kindly  said  all  the  correct 
things.     She  ought  to  have  been  delighted." 

"I  am  sure — "  Anne  began  loyally. 

"/  am  sure  that  the  true  inwardness  of  the  fact 
hasn't  dawned  on  her  yet, "  Richard  interrupted. 

"What  is  the  true  inwardness  of  the  fact?" 

Anne  asked  quickly,  bracing  herself  for  something 
disagreeable. 

"That  the  possession  of  my  degree  will  remove  me 
from  the  sphere  of  her  orbit,"  Richard  answered, 
with  a  twinkle. 

Anne  was  startled.     She  looked  up  at  last. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you're  going  away?" 

There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  pierced  Richard's 
joy. 


Young  Magic  215 

"Ultimately, "  he  answered.  "  I've  got  to  have  the 
thing  conferred  first  and  then  find  a  billet.  We'll 
have  some  good  times  together  before  you're  finally 
rid  of  me,  Anne." 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  dully,  looking  out  on  the  oblong 
garden  with  its  strip  of  sodden  grass  and  its  drenched 
lilac-bushes.  Irises  thrust  their  mauve  and  purple 
crowns  through  clumps  of  green  swords  in  the  narrow 
sooty  borders.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  everything 
still  dripped. 

"Don't  you  want  those  good  times,  Anne?"  asked 
Richard  softly. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  again. 

"  So  do  I. "  He  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and 
shook  her  lightly.  "  Come  back.  Elfin  Princess.  You 
mustn't  do  the  White  Chip  act  now.     I  won't  have  it. " 

Anne  roused  herself  with  an  effort,  and  forced  a 
smile. 

"A  miserable  attempt,"  said  Richard.  "What's 
the  matter?     Out  with  it  this  minute,  Anne. " 

Anne's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears,  but  she  lifted 
her  head  proudly  and  held  them  back. 

"It's  really  nothing,  Ricky, "  she  said.  " I've  been 
in  the  house  all  day  and  feel  stupid.  Besides,  I — I 
don't  altogether  like  the  idea  of  your  going  away. 
I — I'll  miss  you — horribly. " 

"Will  you?  Will  you  really,  dear?  I'll  miss  you, 
too.     You " 

"But  it's  too  soon  to  begin  to  be  melancholy," 
interrupted  Anne,  feeling  suddenly  comforted  by  that 
softly  spoken  "dear."  "As  you  say,  we  have  all 
sorts  of  good  times  before  us. " 

"Let's  begin  them  now,"  he  suggested.     "Would 


2i6  Drifting  Waters 

you  like  to  put  on  your  hat  and  come  for  a  walk  along 
the  Embankment,  or  would  you  rather  stay  here  and 
let  me  play  Chopin  to  you?" 

Anne  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  white  shutter 
and  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"I —  Do  you  really  want  to  play  Chopin  to  me, 
Ricky?  Don't  you  know  that  when  you  play  those 
aching,  throbbing,  passionate  things  I  feel  as  if  you 
were  playing  on  my  heart?  You  don't  want  to  play 
on  my  heart,  do  you,  Ricky?" 

Her  eyes  searched  his  with  something  of  that  glance 
of  wild  liquid  fire  which  he  had  surprised  in  them  that 
day  at  St.  Barnabas. 

A  light  kindled  in  his  in  response. 

"I  believe  I  do,  Anne.  I  really  believe  I  do,"  he 
answered  slowly. 

She  withdrew  her  gaze  with  an  effort,  and  a  flush 
crept  over  her  white  skin. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  have  my  heart  played  upon, " 
she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "Let  us  get  out  into 
the  air  and  walk  towards  the  sunset."  She  moved 
towards  the  door. 

* '  Anne !     One  moment . '  * 

"Yes.     What  is  it?"     She  stopped  and  turned. 

There  in  the  dusk  of  the  room  she  stood,  a  figtu-e  of 
slim,  haunting  grace,  with  her  little  classic  head  and 
her  light  woodland  movements. 

"I've  won  a  concession,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  to 
tell  you.  I  have  Monday  afternoon  free  and  your 
mother  says  that  I  may  take  you  on  the  river  if  you 
like.     Will  you  come,  Anne?" 

Surely  the  gate  into  the  enchanted  garden  opened  a 
little.     The  scent  of  its  flowers  seemed  to  be  wafted 


Young  Magic  217 

towards  her,  or  was  it  the  perfume  of  the  rain-washed 
lilac  in  the  little  back-garden  without? 

"Do  you  really  want  me,  Ricky?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"More  than — "  She  did  not  know  what  folly 
she  was  about  to  utter.  The  magic  fragrance  of  the 
garden  or  the  lilac  seemed  to  intoxicate  her. 

"More  than  any  one  in  the  world,"  he  answered, 
coming  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

Her  face  grew  bright  as  with  an  inward  fire. 

"  I  thought — "  she  began. 

"Anne,  you  silly,  don't  you  know "  he  strode 

towards  her  with  outstretched  hands,  but  she  was 
gone. 

It  was  the  ordinary  happy  Anne  who  came  back  a 
few  moments  later  to  walk  with  him  towards  the 
sunset — an  Anne  light-hearted  and  eminently  com- 
panionable but  determined  to  keep  all  but  trivialities 
at  bay. 


n 


"What  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 
Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days." 

"Let's  be  obvious  and  quote  things,"  said  Richard, 
as  he  poled  the  punt  behind  a  clump  of  willows  on  an 
islet  and  drew  up  beside  a  green  stretch  of  bank 
guarded  by  two  or  three  gnarled  hawthorn-bushes, 
whose  wealth  of  fading  bloom  dropped  drifts  of  fallen 
petals  on  the  grass  beneath. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  quote, "  said  Anne,  leaning  back 
among  the  purple  cushions. 


2i8  Drifting  Waters 

"Why  this  mental  laziness?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I'm  too  happy,  I  suppose.  '* 

"Why  are  you  happy?"  asked  Richard  very  low. 

"This  is  being  obvious  with  a  vengeance,  Ricky," 
Anne  returned,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  provoking 
smile.     "  Because  it's  a  day  in  June,  of  course. " 

"I  see,"  he  answered,  looking  down  at  her  with 
something  in  his  gaze  that  sent  the  blood  racing 
through  her  veins. 

He  liked  the  way  she  smiled,  the  curve  of  her  lips, 
the  shadow  cast  by  her  black  lashes  on  her  cheek,  the 
turn  of  her  neck,  every  line,  every  movement,  every 
gesture.  She  satisfied  every  sense,  but  still — still  he 
did  not  want  even  her  to  come  too  close. 

"We  are  ungrateful  wretches,"  Anne  went  on," the 
way  we  take  all  the  lovely  things  for  granted. " 

"For  instance?" 

"Stars  at  night,  sunsets,  bluebells  in  a  wood, 
hyacinth  mists  on  the  river,  the  song  of  the  larks, 
days  in  June. " 

"I  never  took  this  day  in  June  for  granted,  Elfin 
Princess." 

"Nor  I  really,"  she  answered.  "It's  a  gift  of  the 
gods.  Such  a  new  June  too.  Its  very  first  day,  so 
young,  so  untried,  just  not  May. " 

"So  long  as  it's  not  'May  not'  I  don't  care,"  said 
Ricky,  settling  himself  at  her  feet,  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knees. 

"Ricky,  what  a  foolish  joke!" 

"What  a  profound  truth,  you  really  mean." 

"Perhaps  I  do." 

"Hasn't ' may  not '  been  a  bugbear  to  you  from  your 
youth  up?" 


Young  Magic  219 

"It  has,"  Anne  admitted.  "It  has  always  been 
Sabina's  one  commandment.  She  never  let  me  do 
any  of  the  things  I  most  wanted  to  do  when  I  was 
little." 

"What  were  they?" 

"  My  chief  desires  were  to  play  hopscotch,  or  '  Picky ' 
as  Sabina  called  it,  on  the  pavement,  and  to  buy  a 
whirligig  from  the  rag-and-bone  man. " 

"And  now?" 

"Now  I  don't  want  to  do  either." 

"That's  the  whole  tragedy  of  life,"  he  said,  looking 
intently  at  her.  "But  there  are  other  whirligigs,  other 
Pickies?" 

Anne  moved  on  her  cushions.  His  look  disturbed 
her.  There  was  something  electric  in  the  warm, 
scented  air. 

"That  is  what  keeps  one  going  on,  I  suppose. 
Always  to  want  something.  The  unattainable  for 
choice. "  Even  as  she  spoke  she  thought  of  her  own 
Hesperides  fruit.  Was  it  really  out  of  reach,  after 
all? 

"These  be  desperate  sentiments,"  Richard  said, 
leaning  back  for  the  tea-basket.  "They  make  me 
think  that  you  want,  or  rather  need,  something  that 
is  quite  easily  attainable,  praise  be!" 

"Tea?"  she  said  lazily.  "What  a  material  mind 
you've  got,  Ricky!" 

"The  kettle  will  take  some  time  to  boil,"  he  re- 
turned. "Leave  everything  to  me.  When  all  is 
ready  I  will  ask  you  to  step  gracefully  out  of 
the  punt  and  seat  yourself  on  your  throne  beneath  the 
hawthorn-tree." 

"Will  jT^ou  expect  me  to  pour  out  tea?" 


220  Drifting  Waters 

"Certainly.  That's  the  woman's  job,  or  rather 
'her  womanly  prerogative*  as  I  saw  it  put  in  a  novel 
the  other  day.  Ever  read  reviews,  Anne?"  he  asked, 
stepping  out  on  the  bank  and  busying  himself  with  his 
preparations. 

"Always, "  Anne  answered,  following  his  movements 
with  a  sense  of  yearning  pleasure. 

He  was  good  to  look  at  in  his  flannels,  young,  clean- 
knit,  wholesome.  His  eyes  looked  very  blue  and 
very  bright  when  their  glances  met. 

"It's  not  so  much  the  vogue  now  in  these  days  of 
publisher's  puffs,"  he  went  on,  "but  when  I  was 
young,  reviewers  seemed  to  make  a  sort  of  cult  of 
authors'  pens," 

"Authors'  pens?"  Anne  echoed. 

"They  attributed  all  the  writers'  excellences  to  their 
pens.  There  was  somebody's  Fluent  Pen,  someone 
else's  Poetic  Pen,  another's  Fertile  Pen,  another's 
Gifted  Pen.  Oh,  Anne,  what  a  boon  and  a  blessing 
beyond  Owl  or  Waverley  would  a  Gifted  Pen  be!  I 
wish  I  had  one." 

Anne  laughed. 

"I've  read  of  a  Miss  Bannerley's  Sympathetic 
Pen,"  she  said.     "I  think  I'd  rather  have  that." 

"I'd  hate  Gairloch's  Caustic  Pen,  wouldn't  you? 
And  I'd  be  rather  afraid  of  Burton's  Romantic  Pen. 
You'd  never  know  where  it  might  lead  you.  But 
I've  always  had  a  great  admiration  for  Silo's  Breezy 
Pen.  It  writes  sea  stories,  you  know.  Can't  you 
hear  it  controlling  the  salt  sea  waves,  and  see  'Yeo 
heave  ho's'  and  'Belay  you  there's'  rolling  off  its 
blunt  point  as  easy  as  winking. " 

"How  easy  is  that?"  Anne  asked. 


Young  Magic  221 

"Have  you  never  tried?  Your  education  has  been 
sadly  neglected." 

"Remember,  Ricky,  that  it  has  been  Sabina's  life- 
work  to  bring  me  up  as  a  little  lady!" 

Richard  laughed.     "The  unattainable,  eh?" 

So  with  their  lips  they  fenced  and  babbled  light- 
hearted  folly,  while  the  magic  of  the  day,  the  hour,  and 
each  other  stole  deeper  and  deeper  into  their  hearts. 

Anne  left  her  hat  in  the  punt  when  she  stepped  on 
shore  for  tea,  and  the  sun  shone  for  a  moment  on  the 
black  plaits  before  she  sank  on  the  pile  of  purple 
cushions  which  Richard  had  arranged  for  her  under 
the  hawthorn-tree. 

A  sudden  sense  of  their  remoteness,  of  the  sweetness 
of  their  intimacy  seized  her,  shut  off  as  they  were  from 
the  outer  world  by  the  islet  of  willows,  as  by  a  living 
screen  of  shimmering  green  and  silver. 

The  hand  that  reached  for  the  teapot  trembled  a 
little;  the  flow  of  nonsense  checked  and  faltered. 

Above  them  unseen  larks  soared  heavenward  with 
their  raptures.  At  their  feet  the  water  murmured 
and  rippled,  and  through  it  all  was  the  buzz  and 
undertone  of  myriad  insect-pipes. 

The  sun  sent  quivering  sword-points  of  light  through 
the  spaces  in  the  blossom-laden  boughs  overhead. 
Now  and  again  a  soft  puff  of  wind  sent  a  scatter  of 
petals  over  the  grass. 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  world  had  been  made 
anew  and  they  the  first  man  and  woman  in  it. 

Anne's  heart  began  to  beat.  She  grew  a  little 
frightened  of  the  stillness,  of  the  solitude;  a  little 
more  frightened  of  herself.  Elemental  forces  were 
stirring  within  her.     The  little  meal,  shared  under  the 


222  Drifting  Waters 

trees  in  sweetest  privacy,  seemed  almost  sacramental. 
For  a  wonderful  instant  she  seemed  to  be  outside  her- 
self, away  from  the  body  on  some  plane  of  ecstasy. 
Yet,  paradoxically,  she  had  never  been  so  intensely 
conscious  of  herself  before. 

A  silence  fell  between  them — a  silence  which  neither 
could  break  with  a  triviality. 

Suddenly  Richard  said  huskily: 

"  Do  you  remember  our  first  picnic  together,  Anne?  " 

She  nodded.     Her  throat  was  dry, 

"You  had  two  long  plaits  then.  I'd  like  to  see 
them  again — to  see  the  little  vanished  Anne — that 
little " 

"  You'll  never  see  that  Anne  again.  She  is  gone  for 
ever,  Ricky." 

"She  has  only  merged  into  the  new  wonderful 
Anne,"  he  said,  putting  up  a  hand  and  touching  the 
coiled  plaits  softly.  "Take  them  down,  Elfin  Prin- 
cess.    This  is  my  party. " 

With  trembling  fingers  she  began  to  take  the  pins 
out  of  her  hair.  In  a  moment  a  long  black  plait  fell 
over  either  shoulder. 

Richard,  kneeling  before  her,  took  one  in  each  hand 
and  pressed  them  to  his  face. 

"How  long!"  he  said  softly.  "How  thick!  How 
silken-fine!  I  believe  that  girl  in  the  fairy-tale, 
Rapunzel,  had  just  such  plaits  as  these.  I  wonder  if  it 
hurt  her  when  she  let  them  down  for  her  lover  to  climb 
upby." 

"  It  would  not  hurt  her  if  she  loved  him, "  murmured 
Anne  below  her  breath. 

"Would  it  hurt  you  if  I  climbed  up  by  these?"  he 
whispered,  his  fingers  busy  with  them, 


Young  Magic  223 

Anne  did  not  answer.  She  could  not.  Her  lips 
were  trembling. 

In  a  moment  the  plaits  were  unfastened,  and  her  hair 
hung  about  her  in  a  dusky  cloud.  A  little  gust  shook 
the  hawthorn  petals  down,  starring  its  silky  blackness. 

Richard  looked  at  her.  His  face  was  white  and  his 
eyes  were  very  bright. 

"Anne,  Anne,  I  am  going  to  climb, "  he  cried  breath- 
lessly, and  buried  his  face  in  the  fragrant  masses  of 
her  hair. 

Anne  sat,  transfigured.  The  ecstasy  of  love  swept 
her  to  the  supreme  heights.  Time  and  place  were  not. 
It  was  her  moment. 

Richard  raised  his  head  and  saw  in  her  rapt  love- 
liness his  Vision  Splendid.  All  else  was  forgotten. 
He,  too,  was  swept  to  the  heights. 

"Anne,  have  I  climbed?  Am  I  really  there?"  he 
whispered. 

Anne  said  nothing.     She  only  looked  at  him. 

"Anne!  Darling!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  drawing  her 
into  his  arms. 

They  kissed. 

Anne  closed  her  eyes  on  her  woman's  knowledge, 
so  new  and  blinding,  as  on  a  light  too  glorious  to  be 
borne. 


Ill 


The  passage  from  Earth  to  Paradise  takes  but  a 
golden  moment.  To  enter  the  enchanted  garden  two 
need  but  go  through  the  gate  hand  in  hand;  but  the 
way  back  is  long  and  hard  to  find,  especially  when 
neither  wants  to  find  it.     Therefore  it  was  much  later 


224  Drifting  Waters 

than  Anne  intended  it  to  be  when  she  reached 
home. 

Her  wonderful  secret  was  to  be  guarded  for  a  little 
while  longer  until  the  fitting  moment  for  disclosure 
arose.  She  felt  that  she  must  hold  her  cup  of  happi- 
ness very  steadily  lest  any  brimming  drops  should  flow 
over  and  betray  her. 

Her  feet  danced  along  the  pathway  to  Caroline  Place, 
but  when  she  became  aware  of  the  dusk  stealing  across 
the  river,  and  wrapping  warehouses  and  chimneys  at 
the  other  side  in  a  hyacinth  mystery ;  when  she  saw  the 
length  of  the  creeping  shadows  and  the  paling  fire  of 
the  sun's  last  rays,  a  little  chill  of  apprehension  stole 
over  her.  "The  high  rose-hedge  round  Paradise" 
had  opened  its  crystal  gates  to  let  her  in,  but  it  seemed 
to  her  now  as  if  she  heard  them  close  with  a  faint  clang 
behind  her.  It  was  the  working-day  world  which  her 
feet  trod  once  more  as  she  ran  up  the  steps  at  Caroline 
Place. 

Her  mother  met  her  on  the  threshold.  There  was  a 
pinched,  bluish  look  about  her  mouth  and  nostrils 
which  sent  a  quick  pang  of  fear  through  Anne.  So 
had  she  looked  more  than  once  just  before  one  of  her 
dreaded  heart  attacks. 

"What  kept  you?  Oh,  what  kept  you?"  she  cried 
sharply. 

"Mother,  you  haven't  waited  dinner  for  me?" 
The  two  sentences  clashed  together. 

"But  of  course,"  retiimed  Mrs.  Tudor,  leaning 
back  against  the  doorway  of  the  sitting-room.  Her 
face  looked  white  and  strained  in  the  half-light.  "I 
expected  you  every  moment.  I  was  frightened, 
horribly  frightened,  Anne.     I  thought  that  there  must 


Young  Magic  225 

have  been  some  accident.  The  river  is  so  treacherous. 
I  feared — I  thought " 

"  Mother,  dear,  I  am  sorry.  I  did  not  think  of  your 
being  frightened.  It  was  so  lovely  on  the  river — " 
her  voice  softened  and  grew  tender — "that  time 
slipped  by  without  our  noticing  it. " 

"Time  crept  here.  I  was  terrified.  You  should 
not  have  been  so  inconsiderate,  Anne.  I  am  not  fit 
to  bear  any  strain." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Anne  said  again,  taking  her  mother's 
hand  and  pressing  it  to  her  cheek.  "  I  never  dreamed 
of  your  waiting.  When  we  found  how  late  it  was  we 
hurried  for  all  we  were  worth.  I  felt  quite  sure  that 
Sabina  would  not  let  you  wait  for  me. " 

"How  could  I  eat  when  for  all  I  knew  you  might  be 
drowned,  lying  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  tangled 
among  the  weeds?" 

"Mother!"  cried  Anne  shocked.  "You  knew  that 
there  was  no  fear.     You  knew  that  I  was  with  Ricky. " 

Something  in  the  girl's  tone  stung  Mrs.  Tudor. 
She  drew  away  her  hand. 

"  I  regret  to  say  that  I  haven't  the  unbounded  belief 
in  Richard  Assheton  that  you  seem  to  possess,  Anne, " 
she  said,  coldly.  "Young  men  are  proverbially  care- 
less in  boats.  I  don't  know  why  I  let  you  go.  Every 
moment  was  an  agony. " 

Anne's  conscience  suddenly  smote  her  at  the  thought 
of  her  own  hours  of  ecstasy.  She  had  been  selfish, 
she  had  not  spared  a  single  thought  for  the  mother 
who  had  built  a  torture-chamber  for  herself  of  her 
own  morbid  imagination.  Each  word  of  her  mother's 
seemed  to  tarnish  the  glory  of  her  new-found  joy. 

"Mother,    dearest,    you   shouldn't   have   worried. 

IS 


226  Drifting  Waters 

You  let  me  go  because — oh,  because  you  love  me 
and  wanted  to  give  me  pleasure.  Come  and  have 
something  to  eat  now.  You  must  be  fainting. 
Sabina  should  have  made  you  take  a  glass  of  wine 
or  something." 

"  She  did, "  Mrs.  Tudor  admitted,  with  a  little  shiver 
of  relief  from  suspense. 

Even  while  she  had  tortured  herself  with  her  wild 
imaginings  one  side  of  her  mind  had  told  her  how 
unnecessary  it  was.  Her  own  memories,  deliberately 
thrust  aside,  reminded  her  how  little  the  young  heed 
the  flight  of  time.  "The  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid " 
since  the  world  began,  had  been — but  there  must  be 
none  of  that  nonsense.  Richard  Assheton,  that 
philandering,  careless  vagrant,  was  not  the  man  for 
Anne.  He  was  of  her  own  class,  more  or  less.  In  so 
far  did  he  stand  above  Dr.  Waldron,  but  in  no  other 
sense  was  he  to  be  regarded  as  a  possible  mate  for  her 
child. 

That  the  girl's  heart  might  be  really  touched  never 
once  occurred  to  Mrs.  Tudor.  With  the  self-absorp- 
tion of  those  whose  life  has  been  consumed  by  one 
passion  she  was  ever  unready  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  such  a  feeling  in  another.  No  fires  could  bum  like 
hers.  They  were  at  most  but  sparks  which  could  be 
easily  quenched. 

"Were  there  many  people  on  the  river?"  she  asked 
as  they  sat  down  to  their  belated  dinner. 

"No,  very  few, "  Anne  answered. 

"Ah,  a  splendid  isolation, "  said  Mrs.  Tudor  with  a 
thin  little  laugh. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  softly. 

"Had  you  your  tea  in  the  boat?" 


Young  Magic  227 

"No.  On  the  bank.  Under  a  hawthorn-tree." 
The  little  sentences  jerked  themselves  out  of  the 
happy  chaos  in  Anne's  mind. 

Oh,  if  she  might  but  tell  her  mother!  If  she  could 
but  share  her  joy  with  her !  But  deep  in  her  heart  she 
knew  that  her  news  would  bring  no  joy  with  it. 

"And  you  sat  on  damp  grass,  and  earwigs  dropped 
into  your  tea,  and  caterpillars  on  your  hair,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Tudor  disagreeably. 

' '  Oh  no,  they  didn't, ' '  put  in  Anne  quickly.  * '  Ricky 
saw  to  that." 

At  the  memory  of  what  had  really  happened  be- 
neath the  hawthorn-tree,  of  the  wonderful  revelation, 
of  the  kisses,  not  caterpillars,  which  had  fallen  on  her 
hair — oh  Ricky!  Ricky! — a  flood  of  warm  delight 
thrilled  Anne's  being. 

"The  wonderful  Ricky,"  murmured  Mrs.  Tudor  in 
her  most  frosty  manner.  "Please  spare  me  any  rap- 
tures on  the  subject,  Anne.  I  am  quite  willing  to 
take  them  all  for  granted. " 

"Are  you?"  Anne  began,  but  that  strange  pinched 
look  on  her  mother's  face  checked  the  quick  words 
that  rose  to  her  lips. 

It  seemed  to  lay  nipping  fingers  as  well  on  the 
warmth  at  her  heart. 

With  an  effort  she  began  to  tell  her  mother  of  little 
incidents  of  the  day,  of  people  seen  in  the  train,  of  the 
wonder  of  the  lark's  song,  of  the  swift  advance  of 
summer. 

Yet  all  the  time  she  was  longing  for  the  moment  to 
come  when  she  would  be  alone  with  her  marvellous 
secret ;  when  she  could  kneel  by  the  window  and  com- 
mune with  the  remote  but  friendly  stars. 


228  Drifting  Waters 

She  scarcely  slept  that  night.  Her  waking  dreams 
were  shot  with  wonder.  Her  whole  being  thrilled  at 
the  thought  of  those  magic  hours  of  yesterday. 

This  was  only  the  beginning,  the  threshold.  It  was 
to  go  on,  to  last  for  ever,  for  the  whole  of  their  mutual 
lives,  and  beyond.  Most  strongly,  most  distinctly 
did  Anne  feel  the  sense  of  eternity  which  inspired  her 
love.  Nothing  could  really  part  them  now.  He 
belonged  to  her,  he  was  her  own,  her  man,  and  she  was 
his,  to  her  innermost  fibre.  What  was  it  her  mother 
had  once  said  about  the  conquering  lover? 

"He  seals  you  his. "     Yes,  that  was  it. 

Yesterday  Ricky  had  sealed  her  his  with  his  kiss. 
She  belonged  to  him  now  for  ever  and  ever.  The 
thought  was  ecstasy.  She  probed  no  farther  into  her 
mother's  meaning. 

Morning  brought  her  a  letter  from  him — a  short  one, 
for  Richard  had  no  love  of  spinning  words  on  paper. 
Yet  had  he  possessed  the  Gifted  Pen  which  he  had 
nonsensically  craved — was  it  only  yesterday? — its 
most  fluent  phrases  could  not  have  pleased  Anne  one 
hundredth  part  as  much  as  the  unpolished  sentence 
which  begged  leave  to  remind  her  that  he  loved  her,  in 
case  she  had  forgotten  that  he  mentioned  it  "this 
evening." 

Anne  laughed  happily  at  the  ripples  and  washes  of 
gold  upon  the  ceiling,  reflected  from  the  sunshine  on 
the  water-butt  beneath.  She  did  not  want  him  to  tell 
her  anything  else.  It  was  a  sweet  repetition  of  which 
she  could  never  weary. 

There  was  a  letter  from  Aunt  Nancy  too,  which  she 
had  let  fall  upon  the  floor  as  of  no  account.  When  she 
had  read  Richard's  letter  over  and  over  again,  kissed 


Young  Magic  229 

it,  put  it  where  it  warmed  against  the  beating  of  her 
heart  and  finally  hidden  it  under  her  pillow,  she 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  letter  from  Trent. 

It  was  chatty,  discursive,  affectionate,  as  all  Aunt 
Nancy's  letters  were.  It  spoke  of  her  joy  at  Richard's 
success,  her  hope  of  a  distinguished  career  for  him,  and 
ended  by  saying  that  she  expected  him  for  a  week  at 
Trent  when  his  time  at  St.  Barnabas  was  up,  and 
would  Anne  come  too? 

A  week  at  Trent  with  Ricky!  It  seemed  too 
heavenly  a  prospect  to  be  true.  Still  nothing  was  too 
good  to  be  true  while  the  sun  shone  as  it  did  today 
and  Ricky  loved  her. 

She  gave  her  mother  Mrs.  Egerton's  letter  when  she 
took  her  up  her  breakfast.  Her  heart  sank  when  she 
saw  the  curl  of  her  lip  as  she  read  it.  It  was  to  be 
thumbs  down,  then.  No  Trent,  no  happy  wanderings 
with  Richard  there. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go, "  Mrs.  Tudor  said  sharply,  look- 
ing up  at  Anne  as  she  stood  there  waiting. 

It  seemed  to  the  girl  as  if  she  had  known  all  along 
what  the  verdict  would  be,  yet  she  ventured  a 
pleading ; 

" For  one  week  only?" 

"I  can't  spare  you,  Anne.  Besides,  I  know  per- 
fectly well  that  Nancy  would  never  let  you  go  after  a 
week.  A  week,  indeed!  Besides,  she  doesn't  really 
want  you  when  Richard  is  there.  I  know  Nancy. 
She  loves  to  have  men's  undivided  homage.  She 
would  much  rather  have  him  by  himself." 

"But  she  seems  to  want  me,"  Anne  said  rather 
wistfully. 

Mrs.  Tudor  leaned  back  on  her  pillows.     Her  face 


230  Drifting  Waters 

was  still  wan  and  drawn,  and  there  were  purple 
shadows  beneath  the  eyes  which  burned  on  Anne's 
with  a  sombre  fire. 

" I  want  you  more, "  she  said.  "Aren't  you  content 
to  stay  with  me?" 

She  held  out  a  thin  feverish  hand,  and  Anne  took 
it  in  her  cool  firm  clasp. 

"Of  course  I  am,  mother  dear, "  she  answered  softly. 
How  she  wished  that  her  mother  would  not  bring  the 
personal  element  into  every  question!  It  seemed  to 
force  comparisons  where  none  were  needed. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Tudor's  brows  contracted  in  a  frown. 

"I  know  now  why  Nancy  is  so  anxious  to  have  you 
at  Trent  when  Richard  Assheton  is  there.  She  wants 
to  make  a  match  between  you." 

"Mother!"  Anne's  cheeks  flamed. 

It  was  as  if  someone  had  laid  soiled  hands  on  sacred 
places. 

Mrs.  Tudor  smiled.  "Of  course  that's  it.  How 
stupid  of  me  not  to  have  thought  of  it  before!" 

"But — but  I  don't  believe  Aunt  Nancy  thinks  that 
anyone  is  good  enough  for  Ricky, "Anne  blurted  out 
with  suppressed  fury. 

"Your  money  would  be  very  useful  to  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Tudor  disagreeably. 

"My  money!"  All  the  blood  seemed  to  be  driven 
from  Anne's  body  into  her  heart,  where  it  throbbed 
and  pounded  so  that  she  could  scarcely  hear. 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  know  that  you  are  quite  an 
heiress  in  a  small  way?  When  you  are  twenty-one 
you  will  have  at  least  £500  a  year  in  your  own  right, 
probably  more.  When  I  die  there  will  be  my  money 
as  well. " 


Young  Magic  231 

"I — I  didn't  know,"  Anne  murmured  uncomfort- 
ably.    There  was  no  pleasure  in  the  thought. 

"Nancy  knew,  but  she  did  not  give  me  credit  for 
having  cleverness  enough  to  see  through  her  charming 
little  scheme." 

"  Mother,  you  mustn't.  Aunt  Nancy  never  thought 
of  any  such  thing.  Oh,  I  know  she  didn't — she 
couldn't.  Besides,  people  donH  think  of  things  like 
that." 

"Oh,  don't  they?"  returned  Mrs.  Tudor,  coolly. 
"You  really  are  rather  absurd,  Anne.  I  know  the 
world  better  than  you  do.  Such  things  are  thought  of 
and  done  every  day,  but  they  are  not  going  to  be  done 
to  you  if  I  can  prevent  it. " 

"I — "  began  Anne. 

"I  dare  say  Nancy  had  that  in  her  mind  when  she 
first  invited  you  to  Trent, "  pursued  Mrs.  Tudor,  hot 
on  the  trail  of  her  thoughts.  "Of  course  £500  a  year 
would  be  most  useful  to  a  penniless  young  man  at  the 
beginning  of  his  career. " 

"Mother,  you  mustn't  say  such  things,  Ricky 
never " 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  he's  mercenary,  to  give  him  his 
due,"  conceded  Mrs.  Tudor.  "It's  Nancy's  scheme 
entirely.  But  it's  thwarted  once  for  all,  for  I  should 
never  dream  of  consenting  to  it. " 

"Mother!" 

"  Oh,  don't  argue,  Anne.  I  am  tired.  I'm  going  to 
rest  for  awhile  before  I  get  up.  We  are  going  for  a 
drive  this  afternoon.  I  told  Sabina  to  order  a  victoria 
at  Jobson's.  We  shall  go  through  the  Park  and  see 
the  flowers  and  all  the  smart  people.  You'll  like 
that,  won't  you?" 


232  Drifting  Waters 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  choking  back  her  indignation. 

All  the  spring  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her  tread 
as  she  left  the  room.  A  shadow  crept  across  the 
brightness  of  her  joy.  The  sordidness  of  life  seemed 
to  lurk  at  every  corner,  waiting  to  leap  upon,  to 
snatch  at  and  finger  every  beautiful  thing.  She 
resented  it,  fiercely,  passionately,  and  hid  her  secret 
closer  from  its  debasing  touch. 


IV 


Some  days  later  as  Anne  went  out  to  post  a  letter 
she  came  face  to  face  with  Richard  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps. 

Her  whole  demeanour  changed  when  she  saw  him. 
At  his  first  glimpse  of  her  she  had  looked  very  white 
and  worried,  but  as  the  fact  of  his  presence  flashed  on 
her  transformation  took  place.  It  was  as  if  some 
divine  spark  had  been  set  alight  within  her  which 
gradually  drew  to  a  full  and  wonderful  light.  Face 
and  eyes  shone  as  she  hurried  down  the  steps  towards 
him. 

It  took  Richard's  breath  away,  and  made  him  feel 
very  humble.  Here  was  indeed  a  shrine  of  love. 
Was  he  at  all  worthy  to  tend  it? 

No  doubts  troubled  Anne. 

"This  is  good,"  she  cried.  "You  were  coming  to 
see  me?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "It  seems  years  since  I  did. 
I  couldn't  get  away  sooner.  But  I'm  done  with  it 
all  now,  thank  goodness.  I'm  off  to  Trent  tomorrow. 
I  hate  going  without  you. " 

"Tomorrow?     So    soon,"    Anne    breathed.     The 


Young  Magic  233 

news  gave  her  a  little  shock  of  disappointment, 
though  she  knew  it  was  inevitable.  "How  I  wish  I 
could  go  too." 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"I  told  you.     Mother  can't  spare  me." 

"She  distrusts  me.  Wise  woman!  She  knows  I'd 
steal  her  one  ewe  lamb  if  I  could. " 

"You  have  done  it, "  said  Anne,  very  low. 

* '  Anne,  is  it  true  ?  Is  it  real  ?  I '  ve  thought  ever  since 
that  it  was  only  some  impossibly  delightful  dream. " 

Anne  smiled  happily.  "It's  not  a  dream,  Ricky. 
It's  absolutely  real.  The  very  realest  thing  in  the 
world,  in  fact. " 

"I'm  still  doubtful.  Give  me  your  silly  old  letter 
and  let  me  post  it,  and  then  we'll  go  for  a  walk  along 
the  Embankment."  He  took  the  letter  from  her, 
dropped  it  in  the  pillar-box,  and  taking  her  by  the 
elbow  crossed  the  street.  They  walked  slowly  along 
the  pavement,  pausing  often. 

It  was  a  still  warm  afternoon.  The  sun  shone  in 
long  ripples  of  brilliance  upon  the  river,  bringing  out 
the  rich  red  tones  of  the  barge-sails  at  the  other  side. 
In  the  centre  of  the  stream  of  gold  a  lighter  was  pro- 
pelled by  two  men  with  long  poles.  Seen  black  against 
the  glow  it  looked  like  some  Titanic  gondola  as  it 
moved  on  the  full  slow  tide. 

Overhead  the  plane-trees  rustled  their  peaked 
leaves  and  shook  their  spiky  tassels.  In  the  topmost 
bough  of  one  a  thrush  had  perched,  and  with  pulsing 
speckled  throat  poured  forth  his  evening  hymn  to  the 
praise  and  glory  of  God.  Beneath  the  tree  was  a  seat 
towards  which  Richard,  his  hand  still  on  her  arm, 
propelled  Anne. 


234  Drifting  Waters 

"Let's  sit  here  until  you  must  go  back, "  he  said. 

As  they  sat  Anne  glanced  downwards  with  a  little 
tender  smile  at  the  fingers  which  clasped  her.  The 
fastidious  Ricky  who  was  so  contemptuous,  as  a  rule, 
of  outward  demonstration!  How  often  he  and  she 
had  remarked  upon  other  handfast  couples  seen  on 
these  very  seats,  and  now — verily  the  point  of  view 
changes  when  things  are  seen  from  a  personal  angle. 

Richard's  look  followed  hers.  He  laughed  and 
gave  her  arm  a  little  squeeze. 

"Yes,  we're  just  like  all  the  other  lovers,  after  all, 
Anne,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle.  "I'm  going  to  keep 
my  hand  where  it  is,  and  I  don't  care  who  sees  it.  I 
must  touch  you  to  know  that  you're  there,  and  that 
you're  mine,  and  that  you're  not  going  to  vanish  away 
from  me  into  thinnest  air. " 

"I'm  not  likely  to  vanish,  Ricky." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Remember  the  white 
chip." 

"I'm  never  likely  to  disappear  to  where  you  can't 
find  me." 

"  I'm  not  sure.  You've  a  nasty  trick  of  detachment 
still." 

' '  Ricky !     Don't  you  trust  me  ? " 

"Trust  you?  My  very  dearest,  to  the  world's  end 
and  after!" 

"Ah!"  breathed  Anne,  moving  a  shade  closer  to 
him. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  or  I  shall  kiss  you  in 
the  public  street,"  he  said,  a  little  huskily.  "Think 
how  ashamed  of  ourselves  we  should  be  after!" 

Anne  gave  an  unsteady  little  laugh. 

' '  Should  we  ?     I  wonder  ? ' ' 


Young  Magic  235 

"Anne,  you're  demoralizing  me.  Oh,  you  dear, 
there's  no  one  like  you,  as  Sabina  would  say,  within 
the  walls  of  the  world!" 

A  happy  silence  fell.  The  casual  passers-by  came 
and  went  unnoticed  by  the  two  who  sat  beneath  the 
plane-tree,  listening,  with  ears  attuned  to  the  music 
of  the  spheres,  to  the  thrush  fluting  the  "sweet  ap- 
proach of  even."  Absorbed  in  each  other  they  were 
detached  from  the  outer  world  in  that  happy  isolation 
which  only  lovers  know. 

The  stillness  was  broken  by  six  mellow  strokes  from 
a  neighbouring  church  clock. 

Anne  moved  with  a  little  sigh. 

"You  needn't  go  yet,"  said  Richard.  "We've 
said  nothing." 

"We've  said  everything,  I  think, "  Anne  murmured. 
"And  still  there  is  everything  to  say.  However,  we 
have  all  our  lives  to  say  it  in,  haven't  we?" 

Richard  straightened  himself  and  his  clasp  on  her 
arm  tightened. 

"Anne,  my  darling,  have  you  thought  over  this 
thing  seriously  ?  I'm  a  wretched  match  for  you.  I've 
no  money,  and  before  I  spoke  to  you  I  agreed  to  go  on 
the  Amacaria  as  ship's  doctor  on  her  next  voyage. 
I  don't  know  when  I  shall  have  a  home  to  offer  you. 
I  had  no  right  to  speak,  to  tie  you,  to " 

"Hush,  Ricky.  I  won't  let  you  say  such  things. 
You're  not,  you're  not  sorry  you  told  me — really? 
You  did  mean  it,  didn't  you?" 

"Mean  it?  Of  course  I  meant  it,  silly  person. 
Only  I  had  no  right  to  say  so  until  I  had  something 
to  offer  you. " 

"But  you  had  something  to  offer  me,"  she  said 


236  Drifting  Waters 

softly.  "Everything  to  offer  me,  all  I  wanted  in  the 
wide  world." 

Unsophisticated  as  Anne  was  in  some  ways  she  was 
old  and  wise  for  her  age  in  others.  Some  instinct  held 
her  back  from  mentioning  her  money  to  Ricky — an 
instinct  which  whispered  to  her  that  instead  of  making 
things  easier  for  them  it  might,  to  a  man  of  Richard's 
temperament,  raise  a  veritable  Hill  Difficulty  between 
them. 

"You're  easily  satisfied.  Elfin  Princess,"  he  said, 
looking  wistfully  at  her.  "I'm  afraid  we'll  have  a 
desperate  job  with  your  mother." 

The  glow  faded  a  little  from  Anne's  face. 

"  I  can't  understand  why  she  doesn't  like  you  better, 
Ricky." 

He  laughed.  "You  can't,  you  dear,  of  course. 
You  have  a  ridiculous  trick  of  turning  your  geese  into 
swans.  For  example,"  he  nodded  at  her.  "Even  a 
full  sight  of  the  good  grey  feathers  won't  convince 
you.  You  can't  say  that  I  ever  tried  to  conceal  them 
under  a  swansdown  cloak,  Anne." 

"No,  I  can't.  At  least — why  do  you  trap  me  into 
saying  things  I  don't  mean?" 

"Which  didn't  you  mean?"  he  teased,  watching 
her  with  delight.  "That  I  have  no  grey  feathers,  or 
no  swansdown  cloak?" 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  she  smiled  at  him.  "Why 
do  we  waste  our  precious  moments  in  talking 
nonsense?" 

"I'm  not  talking  nonsense.  I'm  talking  sound 
sense.     I'm  trying  to  disillusion  you." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense,"  she  cried  happily. 
"You  couldn't." 


Young  Magic  237 

"Anne,"  he  said,  sobering  suddenly,  "I'm  not 
worthy.  You'd  better  chuck  me  before  it's  too 
late." 

She  turned  to  him  with  whitening  lips. 

"Then  you  don't  love  me  after  all." 

"But  I  do,  I  do,  more  than  any  one,  anything  in  the 
whole  world.     It's  for  your  own  sake. " 

She  turned  away  her  head.  "You  are  cruel,  Ricky. 
What  have  I  ever  done  that  you  should  frighten  me 
like  this?" 

"Frighten  you?  Anne,  my  darling!  I  did  not 
mean — — " 

"How  could  I  put  you  out  of  my  life  now?  You  are 
part  of  it,  of  me,  like  breathing,  like  my  heart  beat- 
ing, "  she  went  on  disjointedly.  "  I  could  not  stop  one 
any  more  than  the  other.  Oh,  you  don't  know.  You 
don't  understand." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  for  a  moment. 

"Anne,  forgive  me, "  he  said  very  low.  "I  did  not 
understand.  I — it  frightens  me,  somehow.  I'm  not 
worth  it.     I " 

"Oh,  there's  no  question  of  worthiness  or  unworthi- 
ness.  It's  there.  That's  how  it  is.  I  love  you.  I 
can't  unlove  you  to  order, "  she  cried,  smiling  through 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "There's  no  question  of  forgive- 
ness either. " 

Suddenly  this  love  which  had  seemed  so  happy,  so 
light-hearted,  so  beautiful  a  thing  at  first  to  Richard, 
now  loomed  before  him  wonderful  and  awful  as  an 
Angel  with  a  Flaming  Sword. 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight,  but  he  would  not  have  cared  had  the  pave- 
ment been  thronged. 


238  Drifting  Waters 

"Then  you  must  let  me  go  to  your  mother  and  ask 
for  you,  Anne,"  he  said. 

Anne  shrank  back.  "No,  Ricky,  I  can't.  She 
would  never  consent.     I  know  it. " 

"How  do  you  know  it?" 

"She  said  so, "  Anne  blurted  out. 

"When  did  she  say  so?  Why?  How  did  the 
question  arise?" 

Anne  moved  uncomfortably. 

"Must  I  tell  you,  Ricky?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  which  she  had  never 
heard  before.  "There  must  be  truth  between  you 
and  me  at  any  rate,  Anne. " 

"That  is  what  I  wish, "  she  returned  quietly.  "But 
this — this  thing  seemed  so — so  sordid  somehow. " 

"Out  with  it,"  he  urged.  "I  can't  see  you  and 
sordidness  together,  my  Elfin  Princess. " 

"It — it  was  only  that  she  thought  that — that  Aunt 
Nancy  wanted  to  make  a  match  between  us,  you 
and  me.  Oh,  it  seemed  to  vulgarize  it  all.  To  have 
people  talking — meddling — laying  hands  on  it — "  she 
stopped  abruptly. 

"I  know.  And  she  said  that  she  would  not 
consent?" 

"She  said  that  she  would  never  consent." 

"  I  must  try  to  make  her  change  her  mind,  then. " 

Anne  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  dark  with 
pain. 

"It's  no  use,  I'm  afraid.  She — you  see  her  health 
isn't  good.  She  gets  those  dreadful  heart  attacks. 
Dr.  Waldron  said  that  on  no  account  was  she  to  be 
worried  or  thwarted  in  any  way.  He  said — she 
might " 


Young  Magic  239 

Richard  drew  his  brows  together. 

"Has  she  seen  any  one  but  Waldron?" 

"Yes.  She  saw  a  specialist  two  days  ago.  Sabina 
and  I  both  urged  her. " 

"Who  was  it?" 

Anne  named  a  name  well-known  throughout  London. 

"She  couldn't  have  gone  to  a  better  man.  What 
did  he  say?" 

"The  same.  No  agitation.  With  care — "  Anne's 
voice  choked,  and  she  turned  away  her  head. 

"My  darling!  Now  I  know  why  you  looked  so 
white  and  worried  when  you  came  out  today.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  sooner?" 

"Ricky,  I'm  ashamed,  but — I  forgot.  When  I  am 
with  you  I — I'm  afraid  I  forget  everything  else." 

He  drew  her  closer,  careless  of  observation.  "You 
mustn't  worry.  I'll  take  care  of  you,  crooked  stick 
as  I  am." 

"  You're  not  a  crooked  stick,"  she  cried  indignantly. 

"At  any  rate  I'll  do  to  beat  off  dogs  with, "  he  said, 
smiling  reassuringly  at  her. 

The  church  clock  chimed  the  quarter.     Anne  rose. 

"I  must  get  back,  Ricky.  Mother  will  be  down 
by  a  quarter  to  seven  and  she  will  worry  if  I'm  not 
there." 

He  rose  too.  "Very  well.  We've  snatched  an 
hour  from  whatever  gods  there  be,  anyhow.  Now 
you're  not  to  fret  or  worry  while  I'm  away.  The  air 
of  Trent  is  conducive  to  thinking,  and  I  mean  to  do  a 
lot  of  it  while  I'm  there." 

"What  will  you  think  about?"  she  asked,  whisking 
off  the  tears  that  still  hung  on  her  lashes. 

"You,"  he  answered. 


240  Drifting  Waters 


Prom  Trent  Anne  received  rather  a  disturbing 
letter  from  Richard. 

"I'm  afraid  they've  made  the  painful  discovery  here 
that  your  swan  really  is  a  goose,  princess, "  he  wrote. 
"Positively  no  deception,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  No 
delusions  either.  And  no  tame  domestic  goose,  worse 
luck,  but  a  wild,  vagrant  bird  who  must  fly  or  bust. 
You  wouldn't  like  me  to  bust  just  yet,  Anne,  would 
you?  And  that's  what  will  happen  if  they  clip  my 
wings  and  tie  me  by  the  leg.  You're  wiser.  You  let 
me  fly  at  will,  knowing  that  I'll  always  fly  back  to  you. 
To  put  it  in  plain  English,  Nancy  and  Uncle  Robert  are 
enraged  with  me  for  sticking  to  my  contract  to  sail 
with  the  Amacaria  as  ship's  doctor,  instead  of  accept- 
ing their  kind  offer  to  buy  me  a  partnership  in  a  prac- 
tice somewhere  in  England.  Probably  a  country 
town !  '  Good  Lord !  I  can't  settle  down  in  a  country 
town  just  yet,  and  I  can't  take  any  more  favours.  I 
must  see  something  of  the  world.  It's  strange  that 
I  should  say  all  this  to  you,  who  represent  my  one 
and  only  reason  for  wishing  to  settle  down.  Hateful 
phrase !  It  takes  the  salt  out  of  everything.  But  you 
understand.  You  always  do.  Hang  letters !  I  wish 
I  could  see  you  and  talk  things  over,  but  I  shall  next 
week,  praise  be!  They  would  be  madder  than  ever 
with  me  if  they  knew  how  things  are  between  us,  but 
they  haven't  an  inkling.  I  have  trained  myself  to 
speak  of  you  without  the  flutter  of  an  eyelash.  A 
tough  job,  when  I  want  to  shout  my  allegiance  to  the 
world.  You  dearest,  most  wonderful!  .  .  .  Oh 
for  Miss  Thingummy 's  Gifted  Pen!" 


Young  Magic  241 

Anne  read  and  re-read  the  letter.  In  her  inmost 
heart  she  knew  how  he  would  chafe  at  the  restraint  of 
an  ordinary  country  practitioner's  life — its  grinding 
routine,  its  utter  lack  of  privacy,  the  thousand  and 
one  calls  on  time,  skill,  and  patience.  Yet  inwardly 
she  felt  how  dear  a  little  country  home  might  be  if  she 
were  by  his  side,  ever  ready  with  sympathy  and  under- 
standing, to  take  care  of  him,  to  see  that  things  went 
smoothly,  to  be  with  him  always,  always  in  the  sweet 
intimacy  of  every  day  that  knits  those  who  love  so 
closely  together. 

She  dismissed  the  thought  with  a  little  sigh,  re- 
membering what  he  had  once  said  about  shackles. 
Even  the  lightest  would  gall — yes,  that  was  it.  She 
must  not  seek  to  bind  him.  Her  love  was  bond 
enough.  It  was  wonderful  that  he  should  care  for  her 
as  he  did.  Even  if  he  did  as  the  Egertons  desired,  that 
country  house  was  a  dream,  a  bubble  that  would  burst 
when  you  touched  it.  There  was  no  prospect  of  her 
being  able  to  marry  Ricky  at  present.  Why,  there- 
fore, should  she  hamper  him?  He  should  be  free  to 
come  and  go  as  he  would.  Did  he  not  say  himself  that 
he  would  always  fly  back  to  her  ?  How  dear  he  was ! 
How  well  he  understood  her!  And  how  desperately 
she  wished  that  he  was  not  going  in  the  Amacaria! 

Well,  there  was  no  use  in  wishing  impossibilities. 
Men  had  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  women  had  to 
stay  at  home  and  do  the  best  they  could  to  fill  their 
empty  days.  It  was  strange  how  the  fulfilment  of  one 
need  immediately  created  a  new  one.  A  short  time 
ago  the  knowledge  that  Richard  loved  her  had  filled 
her  world  with  joy  to  its  farthest  horizon,  and  now  here 
she  was  wanting  more  already.  Truly,  in  love  there 
16 


242  Drifting  Waters 

was  no  standing  still.  She  chid  herself  and  turned  to 
Sabina  for  consolation. 

"  How  did  you  feel  when  you  stopped  being  married, 
Sabina?"  she  asked  her  one  day. 

"Quare  enough  then,"  Sabina  answered.  "The 
days  did  seem  to  have  nothing  at  all  in  them  for  a 
while,  but  then  I  just  got  used  to  it.  We  gets  used  to 
everything,  Miss  Anne.  'Twould  seem  just  as  extra- 
ordinary now  to  have  a  man  about,  upsetting  every- 
thing, as  it  seemed  quare  and  quite-like  when  Tim 
Brady  went  away.  I  suppose  it's  thinking  about  Mr. 
Richard  going  away  you  are, "  she  thrust  suddenly  at 
her. 

' '  Yes, ' '  Anne  admitted. 

"Ah,  Miss  Anne,  why  do  you  leave  him  go?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Sabina.     I  have  nothing " 

"Come  now,  child,  if  that  was  the  first  He  'twould 
choke  you,"  said  Sabina  bluntly.  "For  all  me  infirmi- 
ties 'tisn't  blind  of  an  eye  I  am  yet,  and  with  the  little 
speck  of  sight  I  have  I  can  see  the  way  himself  looks 
at  you.  'Tis  made  for  each  other  you  are,  Miss  Anne, 
and  'tis  well  he  knows  it  too." 

"It's  useless,  Sabina.  Mother  would  never  hear  of 
it,"  said  Anne,  capitulating  suddenly.  There  was  a 
certain  relief  in  Sabina's  knowledge  and  sympathy. 

The  older  woman  pursed  up  her  lips  and  looked  at 
her  with  her  customary  shrewdness.  She  loved  her 
mistress,  but  Anne  was  the  very  apple  of  her  eye. 

"Them  as  has  had  their  day  has  no  call  to  be 
interfering  with  them  whose  day  is  yet  to  come, "  she 
remarked  oracularly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sabina?" 

"  Oh,  I  mean  a  lot  of  things, "  returned  Sabina.     "  I 


Young  Magic  243 

mean  that  Curly  Twomey  jumped  over  an  iron 
gate  that  was  made  of  butter,  as  high  as  an  angry 
cabbage  stump,  and  as  long  as  from  Patrick's  Day  to 
America!" 

"You're  a  tiresome  old  thing,"  said  Anne,  patting 
her  bony  shoulder.  "I  believe  you're  counselling 
rebellion,  Sabina. " 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  Ctirly  Twomey,  I'd  like 
to  know?"  Sabina  retorted.  "I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  child.     That's  all. " 

"  It's  a  very  big  all, "  said  Anne  softly. 


VI 


A  week  later  Anne  and  Richard  sat  side  by  side  on 
a  seat  in  Battersea  Park.  A  chestnut  spread  its  fans 
of  green  above  them.  Roses  rioted  in  the  grass  garden 
behind  them,  filling  the  air  with  warm  fragrance.  On 
the  slope  that  stretched  down  to  the  Ladies'  Pond  a 
peacock  spread  his  gorgeous  tail  for  the  edification  of 
his  two  wives,  who  continued  calmly  pecking  at  the 
grass  without  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  him. 

The  sun  shone  on  the  bird's  jewelled  splendour,  his 
shimmering  blue-green  breast  and  proudly  crested 
head. 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  in  a  cloak  of  peacock's 
feathers,"  said  Richard.  "All  the  lovely  blues  and 
greens  and  bronzes  would  suit  your  milk-white  skin 
and  night-black  hair.  I'll  give  you  one  when  I  am 
rich,  my  Elfin  Princess." 

"When  will  that  be? 
Said  the  Bells  of  Stepney," 


244  Drifting  Waters 

Anne  quoted. 

"  I  do  not  know, 
Said  the  great  Bell  of  Bow, " 

he  returned.  "That  wonderful  'some  day'  whenever 
the  impossible  happens. " 

He  spoke  a  little  moodily,  turning  to  her.  "You 
understand,  don't  you,  Anne?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Favours  are  burdens,  no  matter  how  kindly  meant. 
If  I  did  as  they  wished  I  shou'd  be  like  that  wretched 
bird. "  He  pointed  to  a  sea-gull  floating  on  the  little 
lake  before  them.  It  had  one  perfect  wing,  but  the 
other  had  disappeared  from  the  joint.  The  poor  bird 
was  making  frantic  but  ineffectual  efforts  to  fly, 
whirling  and  circling  round  in  the  water,  and  beating 
the  air  with  the  one  spreading  grey  wing. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  see  me  like  that, "  he  went  on, 
all  unconscious  of  the  selfishness  of  his  appeal. 

Anne  shivered.  "No,"  she  said.  "You  must  of 
course  do  as  you  think  best.  You  must  travel  and  see 
something  of  the  world.  We  are  both  young  and  can 
wait  for — for  other  things. " 

"But  I  don't  want  to  wait,"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
take  you  with  me.  I  believe  at  heart  you're  as  great  a 
vagrant  as  I  am,  Anne,  only  that  you've  lived  all  your 
life  in  a  cage,  and  don't  realize  what  it  means  to  be 
free.     If  you  once  got  out  you'd  never  go  back. " 

"Is  any  one  really  free?"  she  said  softly.  "Aren't 
we  all  bound  to  someone,  to  something?  You  to  me 
and  I  to  you  and  to  my  mother?  What  you  call 
perfect  freedom  seems  to  me  to  imply  loneliness. " 

"Oh,  no,  it  doesn't.     You  and  your  vagrom  man 


Young  Magic  245 

would  wander  the  world  together,  hand  in  hand,  with 
our  red  cotton  handkerchiefs  over  our  shoulders.  I 
could  always  make  enough  to  give  us  bread  and  cheese. 
You  would  supply  the  kisses,  wouldn't  you,  sweet- 
heart?" 

Anne  drew  a  long  breath.  "Yes.  But  there  you 
are  again.     It  takes  two  to  make  a  perfect  kiss. " 

"It  takes  two  to  make  anything  perfect,"  he 
answered.  "You  and  me.  What  on  earth  do  you 
see  in  me,  Elfin  Princess?" 

"Everything?"  she  murmured  happily.  "But  I 
can't  understand  what  you  see  in  me. " 

"Everything,"  he  echoed.  "You  are  the  only  girl 
I  ever  wanted  to  marry. " 

"What  about  Lilias  Damer?" 

"I  never  had  the  least  desire  to  marry  her.  I  ad- 
mired her  immensely.  I  even — but  I  thought  we 
agreed  that  you  weren't  to  probe,  Anne." 

"I  must  probe  a  little,  for  my  own  happiness. 
What  about  Sister  Doris?" 

"I  admired  her,  too,  but  marry  her?  Lord,  no! 
Anne,  you're  being  silly.  Besides  you're  wasting 
precious  time!" 

"Then  snow  and  roses  have  lost  their  charm?"  she 
put  in  a  little  wistfully. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  admire  them  just  as  much  as 
ever.  Exquisite  fairness  will  always  fascinate  me,  I 
think." 

"Then  my  black  hair " 

"You're  you.  You're  different.  Oh,  you  goose, 
don't  you  understand?" 

"Understand  that  I'm  a  goose,  too?  Perfectly. 
I'm  your  goose,  your  mate.     Am  I  not,  Ricky? " 


246  Drifting  Waters 

He  drew  her  closer.  There  was  no  one  in  sight 
except  a  woman  on  the  next  seat  who  was  guarding 
a  perambulator  and  reading  a  novel  at  the  same 
time. 

"If  only  we  could  fly  away  together." 

"If — Such  a  big  word — Oh,  Ricky,  if  only  we 
could!" 

"Anne, "  he  breathed  in  an  excited  whisper.  "Anne 
sweetheart,  what  if  we  got  married  before  I  sail?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"Married?     But,  Ricky,  how  could  we?" 

"I  believe  it  could  be  done  quite  easily,"  he  cried, 
carried  away  on  the  wings  of  his  impulse.  "We  could 
be  married  at  a  registry  office.  Heaps  of  people  do 
it.  We  could  be  married  in  church  afterwards,  if  you 
liked." 

"Ricky!"  She  sat  breathless.  The  idea  was  so 
stupendous  that  it  turned  her  world  topsyturvy  for 
the  moment.  Slowly  into  her  eyes  stole  that  look  of 
liquid  fire  which  he  loved. 

"We  could  be  married  the  day  I  sail, "  he  went  on, 
excitedly.  "Then  no  one  could  part  us.  Then  you 
could  come  to  me  wherever  I  happened  to  be,  wherever 
I  found  the  place  to  make  a  home  for  you.  Whatever 
happened  I  should  have  the  first  right  to  you.  No 
one  could  come  between  us.  You  would  belong  to  me. 
You  would  be  mine.  Anne!  Anne!  Do  you  like 
the  idea?" 

"  Ricky,  it  takes  my  breath  away,"  she  said,  putting 
her  hand  in  his.  "  It  seems  too  wonderful  to  be  true. 
Could  we  ?     Dare  we  ? " 

He  gave  a  little  triumphant  laugh  and  tightened  his 
clasp  on  her  hand. 


Young  Magic  247 

"Dare  you?"  he  asked.  "It  is  for  you  to  say.  I 
don't  know  how  I  have  the  effrontery  to  ask  you. " 

"Effrontery?"  she  murmured  indignantly. 

"Yes,  effrontery.     A  man  without  a  penny." 

"Ricky,  don't  be  sordid.  Besides" — she  hesitated 
for  a  moment  and  then  went  on.  There  must  be 
truth  between  them — "besides,  I  shall  have  some 
money  of  my  own  when  I  am  twenty-one. " 

She  looked  rather  anxiously  at  him.  In  romances 
this  was  always  a  fatal  revelation. 

To  her  relief  his  face  did  not  change.  It  shone  with 
the  exhilaration  of  his  wonderful  idea. 

"Enough  to  buy  pretty  frocks  like  these,"  he 
murmured,  touching  her  knee.  "But  you  mustn't 
buy  them  all,  Anne.  I  want  to  be  able  to  give  you 
pretty  things  of  the  fairies'  colour. " 

The  peacock  strutted  and  trailed  his  cinnamon  wings 
on  the  grass.  The  sunshine  drew  a  glittering  response 
from  every  gorgeous  purple  and  emerald  eye  in  his 
outspread  tail. 

"I  wish  I  could  preen  before  you  like  that,"  said 
Ricky,  half  laughing,  half  rueful.  "I've  nothing  to 
offer,  nothing  to  tempt  you  with." 

"Dearest,"  cried  Anne,  incoherently.  "You  have 
everything.  Life  itself.  All  the  colour,  the  beauty. 
You — oh,  it's  you  who  don't  understand. " 

She  hid  her  face  against  him  for  a  moment. 

The  woman  on  the  farther  seat  was  still  tactfully 
absorbed  in  the  adventures  of  the  Lady  Ethelberta. 

"Then  you  will,"  cried  Ricky  softly.  "You  will. 
Oh,  Anne,  I  am  a  cad  to  ask  you.  You've  seen  no- 
thing of  life.  You  should  have  a  chance  of  meeting 
other  men,  of " 


ii4^  Drifting  Waters 

"There  could  never  be  another  man,"  Anne  said, 
raising  her  head.  "You  really  can't  understand, 
Ricky,  if  you  say  things  like  that.  Even  if  I  never 
married  you  there  would  be  only  you. " 

"It's  because  you  are  young  and  inexperienced  that 
you  think  that, "  he  urged  with  belated  caution. 

Anne  shook  her  head  and  smiled  with  the  fulness  of 
her  knowledge. 

"I  am  years  older  than  you  in  that  way,  Ricky.  I 
know  myself.  I  can't  say  how  or  why,  but  I  do. 
I  know  things  about  love,  too.  I  don't  know  where  I 
learned  them.  They  seemed  to  spring  up  full-grown 
in  my  heart.  I — I  am  not  young  in  love,  Ricky.  I 
am — I  am  a  woman,"  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"Then  you  will  marry  me,  my  dearest?" 

Anne  nodded.  He  took  her  hand  gently  from  her 
face. 

"You  must  look  at  me  and  promise. " 

She  looked  full  at  him,  with  great  love  and  absolute 
sincerity  shining  in  her  grey  eyes. 

"I  will  marry  you,  Ricky,  whenever  you  like." 

' *  My  darling ! "  he  murmured  brokenly.  * '  Kiss  me, 
and  quickly.  There  is  no  one  but  the  peacock  to  see 
and  he  won't  tell." 

They  kissed. 

"Anne,  I  am  not  worthy, "  he  whispered  again. 

"You  are  my  man,"  she  whispered  back. 

"I  am  your  man  for  life  and  death. " 

"And  after,  Ricky." 

"And  after,  my  very  dearest   ..." 

Presently  the  talk  fell  to  discussion  of  ways  and 
means. 


"my    DARLING!"    HE    MURMURED,    "KISS    ME,    AND    QUICKLY 


Young  Magic  249 

"If  only  I  had  not  to  go  to  Ireland  tonight,"  he 
said.     "  But  my  mother " 

"I  would  never  have  you  neglect  your  mother, 
Ricky." 

"She  would  love  you,  Anne.  You  would  love  her. 
She  is  very  sweet  and  gentle  and  sympathetic.  May 
I  tell  her  about  you?  " 

"No.     Not  until  my  mother  knows. " 

"I  must  tell  her  that  there  is  someone  whom  I  love. 
I  couldn't  keep  that  from  her.  She  has  such  keen 
intuitions  where  I  am  concerned  that  she  would  be 
sure  to  know  and  would  wonder  at  my  silence." 

"Well,  you  may  tell  her  that,"  Anne  conceded. 
"Oh,  how  I  wish  everyone  could  know!  I  hate 
anything  underhand,  any  concealment." 

"So  do  I,  but  we've  got  to  keep  this  a  secret  if  we 
doit." 

"If?     You're  not  repenting  already,  Ricky?" 

"I'll  never  repent  unless  you  do." 

"Then  that's  safe,"  said  Anne,  happily.  "We've 
made  up  our  minds  now  and  the  only  thing  is  to  go  on 
without  qualms  or  fears.     I  have  none." 

"  I  have  several, "  he  said.  "  I  feel  that  I  am  taking 
a  mean  advantage  of  your  youth  and  innocence. " 

"Ricky!" 

"Darling!" 

"There  is  no  use  in  calling  me  darling  if  you  persist 
in  saying  things  like  that." 

"Now  she's  angry.  Her  little  feathers  are  all 
ruffled." 

"Yes,  they  are,  and  will  be  worse  if  you  don't 
smooth  them  down  immediately." 

"How  am  I  to  do  that?" 


250  Drifting  Waters 

"  As  if  you  didn't  know.  Don't  you  see,  Ricky,  that 
you're  hurting  my  pride.  I  feel  almost  as  if — as  if  I 
were  throwing  myself  at  your  head." 

*'You?  Good  Lord!"  Richard  laughed.  "Now 
you're  talking  nonsense  in  earnest,  Anne,  if  one  can  do 
such  a  thing.  Don't  you  see  that  it's  for  my  own 
benefit  I  am  making  all  these  suggestions,  throwing 
out  little  lassoes  to  trip  up  my  running  desires? 
Uncle  Robert  would  say  that  it  was  just  like  me  to 
suggest  a  thing  first  and  then  surround  it  with  objec- 
tions. He  knows  me,  Anne.  Knows  the  me  that 
you  haven't  seen,  that  you  won't  see,  bless  you!" 

"Well,  your  womenkind  love  you  at  any  rate, 
Ricky." 

"Yes.  My  womenkind  love  me.  Far  more  than 
I  deserve.  I'm  no  use,  Anne,  really,  if  you'd  only 
see  it." 

"I  prefer  to  be  blind,"  Anne  retorted  cheerfully. 
"  Probably  I'm  just  the  one  person  to  whom  you  can  be 
of  use,  if  you'd  only  see  it. " 

"You  darling,"  he  cried.  "There  is  no  one  like 
you.  You  and  I  were  made  for  each  other,  I  do 
believe." 

"That's  better.     I  know  we  were. " 

"Then  we'll  fulfil  our  destiny  and  make  things 
irrevocable  the  day  I  sail." 

"Yes.  To  make  things  irrevocable.  That's  what 
I  want.  So  that  no  one  can  part  us.  No  one  come 
between  us." 

"I'd  like  to  see  them  dare,"  said  Richard  fiercely. 

"What's  done  is  done,  and  when  it  comes  out  they'll 
just  have  to  bow  to  the  inevitable. " 

Anne  laughed  at  the  sudden  thought  of  her  childish 


Young  Magic  251 

memory.     It  was  her  turn  to  make  people  "bow  to  the 
inevitable"  now! 


VII 


Time  sped  in  a  golden  dream  for  Anne — a  dream 
shot  with  black  darts  of  compunction  when  she 
thought  of  the  deception  she  was  about  to  practise 
upon  her  mother. 

Concealment  of  any  kind  was  essentially  repugnant 
to  her  frank,  honest  nature;  yet  from  the  first  her  love, 
the  crown  of  her  life  as  she  knew  it  to  be,  had  involved 
her  in  a  distasteful  secrecy.  This  cast  an  inevitable 
cloud  upon  its  brightness,  but  for  her  there  was  to  be 
no  turning  back.  Her  feet  were  set  upon  a  path  which 
she  must  follow  to  the  end.  At  present  it  was  smooth 
and  easy  walking,  too  smooth,  perhaps,  except  for 
those  pricking  briers  of  deception. 

Yet  Youth,  living  on  hope,  saw  some  unforeseen 
future  disentanglement,  some  sudden  softening  on  her 
mother's  part  to  make  the  moment  of  revelation 
possible.  It  was  all  splendidly  vague,  yet  splendidly 
expectant.  When  so  much  that  was  wonderful  had 
happened,  what  was  to  hinder  the  little  more  of 
fulfilment? 

Anne  shut  away  her  qualms,  and  longed  for  Rich- 
ard's return  to  London.  Her  love  for  him  swept  all 
lesser  feelings  aside.  To  the  strength  of  her  own  per- 
sonality was  added  the  strength  of  inherited  passion. 
She  was  all  woman,  all  lover  in  these  long  summer  days 
of  waiting. 

Never  had  she  been  gentler  with  her  mother  and 
Sabina.     It  was  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 


252  Drifting  Waters 

her  secret  should  affect  no  one  adversely.  She  wanted 
them  to  feel  afterwards  that  none  had  been  the  worse 
for  her  love  of  Richard,  that  it  had  caused  no  slightest 
difference  in  her  relations  with  those  around  her. 
She  moved  in  a  charmed  world  where  nothing  had 
power  to  fret  or  sting,  a  dream  world  into  which 
she  could  withdraw  at  will. 

Mrs.  Tudor  was  better.  The  hot  weather  suited 
her.  She  took  daily  drives  with  Anne  and  found  her 
as  pleasing  a  companion  as  she  had  ever  been. 

During  the  drives  Anne  discovered  that  she  could 
exercise  her  duality  of  mind  with  considerable  ease. 
While  one  side  of  her  brain  perceived  and  commented 
upon  the  interesting  or  unusual  incidents  seen  in  their 
passing  the  other  lived  over  and  over  again  her  few 
and  precious  hours  with  Richard.  Had  the  memories 
not  been  woven  of  the  very  stuff  of  life  itself  they  had 
long  since  been  worn  threadbare,  so  often  did  she 
take  them  out  and  use  them. 

When  the  time  for  Richard's  return  drew  near, 
Anne  took  her  courage  in  her  hands  and  faced  her 
mother. 

She  had  not  known  it  would  be  such  an  effort,  but 
something  of  the  old  childish  tremors  returned  as  she 
sat  beside  her,  trying  to  frame  the  words  that  she 
wanted  to  say.  She  felt  that  her  voice  would  not 
sound  natural,  her  throat  was  so  dry  and  choky;  still, 
after  a  moment,  she  achieved  an  opening  which  she 
hoped  did  not  sound  as  constrained  as  she  felt  it  to  be. 

"Mother,  Ricky  is  coming  back  next  week,"  she 
began. 

"  Indeed,  Anne. "  There  was  scant  encouragement 
in  Mrs.  Tudor 's  tone.     "I  thought  that  he  would 


Young  Magic  253 

take  up  work  somewhere  now  that  he  has  got  his 
degree  at  last.  It  is  dreadful  for  young  men  to  be 
content  to  idle." 

"He  is  not  content  to  idle, "  Anne  continued,  trying 
to  speak  calmly.  "He  is  sailing  for  Australia  on  the 
1 8th  as  doctor  on  the  Amacaria. " 

"Oh."     The  monosyllable  was  non-committal. 

"I  thought  you  would  have  been  delighted,"  said 
Anne,  trying  to  keep  a  tinge  of  bitterness  from  creeping 
into  her  voice.  "You  won't  be  bored  by  his  coming 
to  see  us  for,  oh,  I  don't  know  how  long. " 

"He  doesn't  come  to  see  me,  therefore  I  don't  let 
him  bore  me, "  returned  Mrs.  Tudor  pleasantly.  "He 
comes  to  see  you,  Anne,  and  I  devoutly  hope  he  doesn't 
bore  you." 

"Oh,  no,  he  doesn't  bore  me." 

"You  young  people  are  wonderful!" 

"Young  people  are  silly,  of  course,  but  they  like 
each  other's  companionship,"  said  Anne.  "Mother, 
he  will  have  only  a  few  days  in  town  before  he  sails. 
He  wants  to  do  some  shopping.  He  wants  me  to  go 
with  him.     I  suppose  you  have  no  objection. " 

"Objection?  Of  course  I  have  every  objection," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Tudor,  "but  I  suppose  they  are  not 
altogether  reasonable.  What  do  you  know,  may  I  ask, 
Anne,  about  buying  men's  socks  and  ties?" 

"Nothing  whatever,"  Anne  answered.  "I  could 
always  say  which  I  preferred  of  two  colours,  but  I 
think  Ricky  just  wants  me  to  be  with  him. " 

"Presumably."  Mrs.  Tudor  was  silent  for  a  per- 
ceptible interval.  Then  she  said  with  a  little  tang  in 
her  tone:  "And  I  suppose  you're  going  with  him  in 
any  case. " 


254  Drifting  Waters 

Anne  was  stung  to  defiance. 

"Yes.     lam." 

"Then  why  go  through  the  farce  of  asking  my 
permission?" 

"I  wasn't  going  without  telling  you  first.  Oh, 
mother,"  she  broke  out  suddenly.  "Why  can't  you 
try  to  like  Ricky  a  little  better  ?  Why  does  he  always 
seem  to  be  a  bone  of  contention  between  us?" 

"Because  any  one  who  attempts  to  come  between 
you  and  me  will  always  be  a  bone  of  contention," 
answered  Mrs.  Tudor  fiercely.  "Thank  God  this 
interfering  young  man  is  going  off  to  the  Antipodes  and 
that  we  shall  not  see  his  fatuous  countenance  any 
more. " 

A  flood  of  colour  rushed  over  Anne  at  her  mother's 
contemptuous  words.  She  felt  as  if  her  whole  body 
burned.  She  shrank  back  into  her  seat.  She  wanted 
to  put  as  much  space  between  them  as  the  limited 
scope  of  the  carriage  allowed.  For  the  moment  a 
flame  of  resentment  that  flared  perilously  towards 
hatred  sprang  in  her  heart.  How  was  she  to  combat 
this  ?  How  reconcile  two  such  conflicting  claims  ?  It 
seemed  hopeless  on  the  face  of  it. 

Then  the  flame  died  down  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen 
when  her  mother  turned  a  white  questioning  face 
towards  her. 

Her  lips  twitched  a  little  as  she  leaned  over  and  put 
her  hand  on  Anne's  knee. 

"I  did  not  really  mean  that  your  friend  was  fatu- 
ous," she  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who  makes  the 
amend  honourable.  "He  is  quite  intelligent  in  his 
own  way,  and  means  well,  I  dare  say.  But  he  mustn't 
come  between  you  and  me,  Anne." 


Young  Magic  255 

"No  one  could  do  that  but  yourself,  mother." 
Anne's  voice  was  cold. 

"But  myself?    What  do  you  mean,  Anne?" 

"I  mean  that  it  is  you  who  are  always  raising 
questions,  forcing  comparisons." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  a  foolish,  jealous  old  mother, " 
interrupted  Mrs.  Tudor,  with  clearing  brow.  "But 
you  are  my  ewe  lamb,  my  littlest.  I  should  die 
if  any  one  came  between  you  and  me,  even  yovur 
transcendental  Ricky. " 

"Oh,  mother,"  Anne  began  again,  then  stopped, 
seeing  the  futility  of  further  argument. 

"I  will  be  very  good,"  Mrs.  Tudor  went  on.  "I'll 
let  you  go  and  choose  his  hateful  socks  and  ties.  I'll 
even  ask  him  to  dinner  if  you  like,  on  the  condition 
that,  once  he  has  departed,  we  shall  have  a  long,  long 
rest  from  him,  and  that  you  will  not  mention  his 
detestable  name  to  me  again. " 

"Very  well,  mother,"  said  Anne  quietly.  "But  I 
don't  think  you  need  bother  to  ask  him  to  dinner  for 
I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  come." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor  perversely. 
' '  See  the  immediate  reward  of  virtue ! " 

Anne  did  not  answer. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  HONEYMOON 


THE  brief  ceremony  was  over  that  made  Richard 
Assheton  and  Anne  Tudor  man  and  wife. 

The  same  sunshine  drew  heat  from  the  same  radiat- 
ing pavement  when  they  emerged  from  the  Registry 
Office  as  when  they  had  entered  it.  The  same  children 
were  playing  the  same  game  in  the  roadside ;  the  same 
old  man  with  a  tray  of  bootlaces  still  stood  at  the 
Same  comer.  Nothing  had  changed,  in  fact,  except 
Anne's  name,  and  there  was  little  to  make  her  realize 
that. 

"Are  we  really  married,  Ricky?"  she  asked,  looking 
up  at  him  and  feeling  for  the  wedding-ring  under  her 
glove. 

"As  really  as  that  canary -like  person  could  make 
us,"  he  rejoined.  "It's  not  an  impressive  ceremony 
for  such  a  vitally  important  one,  is  it?" 

" No, "  Anne  admitted  disappointedly.  "The  room 
was  hot  and  stuffy,  and  they  were  all  so  business-like 
and  so  uninterested,  except  for  the  canary  person's 
unexpected  good  wishes  at  the  end,  and  even  that 
soimded  like  part  of  the  formula. " 

"Anyhow,  it's  over,  praise  be!  And  without  fuss, 
256 


The  Honeymoon  257 

or  rice,  or  people.     You  belong  to  me  now.     I'm 
responsible  for  you." 

Anne  gave  a  little  excited  laugh. 

"  You  don't  look  a  bit  responsible, "  she  said.  "  But 
cheer  up.  I  don't  think  that  any  one  can  be  really 
responsible  for  one  except  oneself. " 

"Help!  She's  being  analytical  on  her  wedding- 
day,  "  cried  Richard,  taking  her  hand  and  tucking  it 
through  his  arm.  "You  want  some  luncheon,  young 
woman.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  What 
do  you  say  to  a  wedding  breakfast,  Mrs.  Assheton, 
with  a  little  champagne  to  tone  you  up?" 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  hungry?  I  really  don't  know," 
she  said,  giving  his  arm  a  little  squeeze.  "Nothing 
seems  real  except  you. " 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"We'll  soon  find  out  whether  you're  hungry  or  not. 
Let  us  charter  the  nearest  taxi  and  go  in  search  of  an 
appetite. " 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  have  one  of  your  lonely 
hansoms?"  she  asked,  smiling  up  at  him,  and  feeling 
as  if  she  were  walking  and  talking  in  a  dream. 

"Much  rather,"  he  returned,  "and  more  by  good 
luck  than  good  management  here  one  comes  round  the 
comer.  Probably  the  last  in  London.  Let's  capture 
the  survival." 

He  put  up  his  stick  and  hailed  it. 

They  got  in  and  Richard  gave  his  orders.  As  the 
cab  bowled  along  he  slipped  his  arm  roimd  his  new- 
made  wife,  and  held  her  close. 

"Dearest,"   he   said,    very   low,    "I    am    talking 
nonsense  because  I  can't — well,  I  can't  say  the  things 
that  matter. " 
17 


258  Drifting  Waters 

"There  is  no  need,"  Anne  whispered,  though, 
womanlike,  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  would  have 
dearly  liked  to  hear  them. 

"Listen  to  our  wedding-march,"  he  murmured. 
"The  cHppety-clop  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  shining 
road.  I  am  glad  it  was  not  the  complacent  purr  of  a 
taxi,  aren't  you?" 

"  Yes, "  Anne  breathed. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while.  Their  hearts  beat 
fast.  Richard's  throbbed  with  desire  for  a  real  honey- 
moon unshadowed  by  threat  of  parting;  Anne's  was 
pierced  by  the  wild  pang  of  knowledge  that  now  he 
was  hers  and  that  in  a  few  brief  hours  she  was  to  lose 
him.  It  seemed  as  if  the  light  of  the  world  would  go 
out  for  her  then. 

The  cab  drew  up  outside  a  little  French  restaurant 
where  he  had  taken  her  more  than  once  before  on  their 
shopping  expeditions. 

They  greeted  the  smiling  patronne  who  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  who  admired  the  purity  of 
Anne's  French  accent. 

"Madame  teaches  Monsieur  a  little,  is  it  not?"  she 
beamed,  as  Richard  greeted  her  in  French.  "He  im- 
proves.     It  is  well.      Perhaps  in  time — who  knows!" 

She  pointed  her  sentences  with  smiles  and  gestures  of 
her  plump  hands,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs  to  the 
quaint  rooms,  all  rough-cast  and  brown-timbered  like 
a  Breton  farmhouse. 

Here  they  were  met  and  greeted  by  a  smiling  Emile. 
It  seemed  to  Anne  only  right  that  the  world  should 
smile  at  her  on  this  unconventional  shorn  wedding-day 
of  hers.  She  was  hungry  for  some  acknowledgment  of 
its  importance. 


The  Honeymoon  259 

"Monsieur's  table?  It  is  here,"  said  Emile,  lead- 
ing them  to  a  secluded  corner,  where  a  jut  of  wall  and  a 
big  pot  full  of  copper-beech  branches  screened  them 
from  observation. 

The  Breton  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table  was  full 
of  white  flowers,  roses,  and  carnations.  Anne  looked 
at  them  and  then  at  Richard,"  and  touched  the  scented 
blossoms  softly. 

"These  are — for  me?"  she  said;  "you  thought  of 
them  beforehand?     You  ordered  them?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her.  "One 
doesn't  leave  one's  wedding-breakfast  to  chance.  I 
didn't  want  to  give  the  show  away  this  morning  by 
decking  you  with  white  flowers  for  the  sacrifice,  but  I 
chose  them  earlier  and  had  them  sent  here. " 

"Oh,  Ricky,"  her  eyes  filled  suddenly. 

"Oh,  Niobe!"  he  mocked  softly.  "Have  I  married 
the  wrong  lady  after  all?" 

He  leaned  over  and  took  some  of  the  flowers  from 
the  bowl.  "  Here,  let  me  pin  them  in  for  you.  You'd 
like  these  carnations  best,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes — darling, "  she  murmured  with  trembling  lips. 

The  fingers  that  fastened  in  the  flowers  shook  a 
little. 

"Anne,  I  wish  to  God  we  were  going  to  have  a  real 
honeymoon, "  he  said  with  sudden  passion. 

"So  do  I,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  We  must  just 
put  up  with  things  as  they  are. " 

"Things  as  they  are!  The  old  fetish!  Never 
mind,  this  is  our  honeymoon, "  he  said,  his  mood  veer- 
ing. "I've  ordered  things  I  thought  you'd  like,  but 
I'm  hanged  if  I  believe  that  cither  of  us  will  know  or 
care  what  we  are  eating. " 


26o  Drifting  Waters 

Anne  laughed  tremulously. 

It  was  quite  true.  They  might  have  been  eating 
bread  and  cheese  or  nectar  and  ambrosia  for  all  either 
was  aware,  though  the  latter  fare  seemed  the  likelier 
on  thinking  over  it  after. 

Richard  pledged  her  in  champagne. 

"To  you.  My  wife,"  he  said.  His  eyes  caressed 
her. 

"To  you,  and  to  our  love,"  she  responded  softly, 
her  face  lit  by  that  inner  flame. 

"Let's  drown  the  white  chip  in  it, "  he  suggested. 

Anne  smiled.  "  You  will  be  my  white  chip  when 
you  are  away.  I  am  always  able  to  detach  myself 
to  think  of  you.  I  don't  want  to  drown  you.  Oh, 
Ricky,  is  there  any  fear  of  your  being  drowned?" 
she  cried  in  sudden  panic. 

"  Not  the  slightest.     I  can  swim  like  a  fish. " 

"But  Sabina  says  that  the  best  swimmers " 

'  *  Hang  Sabina !  That's  a  queer  form  of  consolation, 
Elfin  Princess. " 

"I  know  it  is,"  she  said  shakily,  "but  everything 
seems  queer  today. " 

"Well,  it's  turned  our  world  upside  down,  anyhow, ' ' 
he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "And  I  for  one  vastly  prefer 
the  look  of  it  from  this  point  of  view.     Don't  you?" 

"From  the  point  of  view  of  being  married?" 

"Yes." 

"  It's  such  a  new  aspect  that  I'm  not  used  to  it  yet. " 

"What  a  disappointing  answer!  I  thought  you'd 
have  said  you  loved  it. " 

•'I  would  love  it  if " 

"'If  is  a  sickening  word,"  said  Richard.  "We'll 
banish  it  from  otu"  bright  lexicon  of  Youth  and  sub- 


The  Honeymoon  261 

stitute  the  glorious  monosyllable  'when.'  When, 
some  day — "  he  leaned  across  the  table  and  took  her 
hand.  "We'll  drink  a  toast  to  our  improved  dic- 
tionary, "  he  added  after  a  pause. 

"Dearest!"  Anne  murmured.  Her  heart  was  too 
full  for  speech. 

She  sipped  the  champagne  and  looked  at  him  over 
the  brim  of  the  glass.  Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  and 
held  his  for  a  long  moment. 

Words  were  things  to  be  distrusted  on  that  day  of 
meeting  and  parting.  Only  the  lesser  coin  of  every- 
day speech  must  be  used. 

At  last  the  little  meal,  spun  to  an  inordinate  length, 
was  over.     Richard  looked  at  his  watch  and  rose. 

"  Don't  say  you're  going  now, "  cried  Anne. 

"It  is  time  for  us  to  be  getting  on,"  he  answered. 
"The  ship  sails  at  four,  and  my  idea  was  to  take  you 
with  me  to  the  Docks,  show  you  my  cabin,  say  good- 
bye there — we've  had  precious  few  moments  of  privacy 
in  our  intercourse,  Anne — and  then  put  you  into  a  taxi 
and  send  you  home. " 

"Before  the  ship  sails?" 

"Certainly  before  the  ship  sails.  You  don't 
imagine  that  I'm  going  to  let  you  stand  there  on  the 
quay  by  yourself,  miserable  and  lonely.  I  know  no- 
thing more  depressing  than  seeing  a  ship  go  off.  And 
to  see  your  dear  white  face  getting  smaller  and  smaller 
— I  couldn't  stand  it,  even  if  you  could,  my  princess. 
Anyhow,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  try. " 

Anne  rose  and  began  to  put  on  her  gloves. 

" Don't  bother  about  that, "  said  Richard.  "I  like 
the  look  of  that  ring,  and  we're  going  to  drive  down  to 
the  Docks.     Give  your  gloves  to  me.     I'll  put  them 


262  Drifting  Waters 

in  my  pocket.  Aren't  you  going  to  take  your  wedding- 
bouquet?" 

"I  would  love  to,"  Anne  faltered. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  a  great  weight  at  her  heart 
which  in  some  odd  way  hampered  speech.  It  was  a 
physical  feeling  as  well  as  a  mental  one. 

"  Emile, "  Richard  commanded.  "  Please  dry  those 
stems. " 

Emile  came  running  up  with  a  napkin  and  dried  the 
stems  of  the  flowers.  Then  he  wrapped  silver  paper 
round  the  ends  and  handed  the  bouquet  to  Anne  with 
a  flourish. 

"No  more  hansoms.  We'd  better  have  a  taxi," 
said  Richard.  "It's  a  long  way  and  I'd  like  to 
have  you  for  a  few  minutes  to  myself  when  we  get 
there." 

"Yes,"  said  Anne. 

There  was  at  once  so  much  and  so  little  to  say ;  so 
short  a  time  for  speech;  so  many  weary  months  in 
which  to  regret  silence. 

Anne  had  but  a  watery  smile  for  Madame  when 
she  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  an  unusually  me- 
chanical response  to  her  friendly  valediction. 

"Monsieur  goes,  is  it  not?"  she  said  with  quick 
sympathy. 

Anne  nodded. 

"Madame  has  my  sympathies,  and  if  it  is  per- 
mitted," she  put  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  plump 
bird,  and  cast  a  lightning  glance  at  Anne's  bouquet 
and  the  obviously  new  wedding-ring,  "my  felicitations 
also." 

Anne  thanked  her.  She  was  grateful  for  these 
crumbs  of  congratulations  from  outsiders  on  a  day 


The  Honeymoon  263 

when  she  would  have  proudly  bidden  the  whole  world 
to  rejoice  with  her  at  the  crowning  of  her  life. 

Richard  helped  her  into  the  taxi  and  sat  beside  her. 

They  were  very  silent  during  the  long  drive  to  the 
Docks.  He  drew  her  closely  to  him  and  they  rested 
in  the  dear  sense  of  contact,  of  the  warm  human  touch 
which  they  were  about  to  forego  for  so  long. 

Anne  took  no  heed  of  her  surroundings.  She  had  no 
eyes  for  the  crowded  traffic,  the  busy  sordid  streets. 
Her  mind  was  filled  with  Richard  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else.  Even  their  arrival  at  the  Docks,  their  novelty, 
their  intricacy  made  no  appeal.  She  clung  in  a  forlorn 
way  to  Richard's  arm  as  they  hurried  through  them 
and  up  the  gangway  into  the  Amacaria. 

The  people,  the  porters,  the  luggage,  the  swinging 
cranes,  the  fuss,  the  confusion  might  all  have  been 
some  meaningless  phantasmagoria  for  all  she  heeded 
it. 

They  went  along  corridors,  through  saloons,  down 
a  staircase  and  along  another  corridor  until  Richard 
threw  open  a  door,  and  ushered  her  into  his  cabin. 

"What  a  tiny  place!"  cried  Anne.  "Is  it  possible 
that  you  will  have  to  live  here,  Ricky?" 

"Why  this  is  quite  a  roomy  cabin,  as  cabins  go, "  he 
answered.  "Look  at  this,  and  that?  Aren't  they 
ingenious  contrivances?" 

He  showed  her  all  the  space-saving  devices  which 
the  ingenuity  of  sea-going  man  has  invented.  Then 
he  turned  to  her. 

"Take  off  your  hat,  my  darling.  I  want  to  see  you 
just  as  you  look  every  day. " 

She  took  out  the  pins  and  flung  her  hat  on  his  berth 
lifting  her  hair  a  little  with  her  fingers. 


264  Drifting  Waters 

"Let  me  do  that, "  he  whispered.  "I  love  to  touch 
your  hair.  Anne,  sweetheart,  would  you — will  you 
let  it  down  once  more  for  me?     Do  you  remember? " 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back,  lifting  trembling  hands 
to  unloose  the  black  plaits. 

With  unused  fingers  Richard  also  fumbled  for  hair- 
pins, and  in  a  moment  the  black,  silky  cloud  fell  about 
her.  Her  face  looked  white  and  small  and  wistful 
thus  framed.  He  took  up  handfuls  of  the  silky  mass 
and  kissed  it  and  buried  his  face  in  it.  Then  he 
clasped  Anne  passionately. 

"My  wife!  My  treasure!"  he  cried.  "Have  I 
wronged  you  today?    Tell  me. " 

"No,  no,  my  darling,"  said  Anne.  "You  have 
crowned  me,  Ricky.  It  is  our  destiny.  We  could 
have  done  nothing  else  even  if  we  would. " 

He  held  her  and  kissed  her,  eyes,  lips,  and  hair.  At 
last  he  put  her  from  him. 

"I  almost  forgot  to  give  you  my  wedding-present, " 
he  said,  with  a  strained  little  laugh,  unlocking  a  suit- 
case that  was  thrust  beneath  his  berth,  and  taking  out 
a  flat  leather  case.  "I  had  to  get  you  something  of 
the  fairies*  colour,  Anne.     Open  it. " 

He  put  the  case  into  her  hand  and  watched  her  as 
she  opened  it. 

"Oh,  Ricky!  How  lovely!  How  dear  of  you!** 
she  cried,  taking  out  a  necklace  of  beryls. 

"You  like  it?" 

"I  love  it.** 

"Put  it  on.  I  thought  the  stones  would  look  like 
drops  of  green  sea-water  on  your  white  neck.    Let  me. ' ' 

He  turned  the  collar  of  her  frock  down  a  little  lower, 
and  clasped  the  necklace  round  her  throat. 


The  Honeymoon  265 

"They  do,"  he  said.     "Oh,  my  Anne!" 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  the  whiteness 
above  where  the  green  stones  lay. 

"Now  do  your  hair,"  he  said  rather  huskily. 
"Here's  a  find  gold  chain  to  wear  your  ring  on.  Let 
me  think  of  it  lying  here,  just  over  your  heart,  until 
I  come  back  to  put  it  on  again,  once  for  all. " 

"Ricky!  My  dearest!  All  these  lovely  things! 
How  can  I  thank  you?"  she  cried  incoherently. 
"And  I've  given  you  nothing." 

' '  You've  given  me  yourself, ' '  said  Richard.  ' '  Don't 
begin  to  disparage  my  property  already,  please.  And 
where  do  you  leave  your  photograph,  which  will  look 
down  on  me  night  and  day,"  he  continued,  seating 
himself  on  the  edge  of  his  berth,  and  watching  her 
slim  white  fingers  weaving  the  shining  strands  into  the 
two  familiar  black  plaits,  "and  those  very  silver- 
backed  brushes  which  you've  just  been  using,  to  say 
nothing  of  that  swagger  flask!  You've  showered 
things  on  me,  my  Princess,  and  all  I've  given  you  is  a 
crooked  stick  and  a  necklace  of  cheap  stones. " 

"Ricky!"  she  turned  an  indignant  face  towards  him 
as  she  began  to  wind  the  plaits  roimd  her  head. 

He  laughed,  caught  at  the  nearest  one,  and  pulled 
her  to  him  by  it. 

"They'll  turn  into  emeralds,  the  true  fairy  colour, 
some  day  when  I  am  rich, "  he  went  on,  in  the  same 
tone  of  desperate  lightness.  "I'd  like  to  see  a  string 
of  emeralds  running  like  green  fire  roimd  your  milk- 
white  neck,  my  sweetheart. " 

"I'd  rather  have  these,"  she  said,  touching  them 
softly. 

"Why?" 


266  Drifting  Waters 

"Because — oh,  because  of  today,"  she  murmured. 
Then  she  stooped  and  flung  her  arms  round  him: 
"Oh,  my  man,  my  man,  how  can  I  let  you  go? " 

He  held  her  to  him  closely.  In  that  moment  life 
seemed  unbearably  hard.  The  future  shut  in  upon  the 
present  with  a  cloud  of  impenetrable  darkness.  He  had 
not  realized  that  the  parting  would  have  been  so  bitter, 
and  could  find  no  words  with  which  to  sweeten  it. 

For  awhile  they  clung  together  in  a  desperate  silence, 
two  passion-torn  young  creatures.  Then  Anne  leaned 
back  against  him  with  closed  eyes.  She  looked  white 
and  fragile,  and  there  were  purple  shadows  beneath 
her  eyes. 

Compunction  smote  him  as  he  looked  at  her,  com- 
punction mingled  with  desire. 

Why  had  he  done  this  thing?  What  right  had  he  to 
take  her  life  so  lightly  into  his  hands?  For  the  first 
time  some  realization  of  the  gravity  of  the  step  which 
they  had  jointly  taken  pierced  his  careless  conscious- 
ness. For  good  or  ill  their  lives  were  inextricably 
bound  together  till  death  did  them  part. 

Richard  wondered  why  marriage  was  always  made 
the  subject  of  such  light  and  thoughtless  jesting.  It 
was  a  solemn,  serious,  desperate  venture.  He  felt 
almost  a  criminal  in  that  swift  moment  of  revelation. 

Then  he  bent  towards  the  white  face  so  near  his  own. 
Long  shuddering  breaths  shook  the  slight  form  which 
he  held. 

"My  darling,  this  is  good-bye,"  he  whispered. 

"  Is  it,  Ricky?  Now?  "  She  opened  eyes  that  were 
dark  and  suffering. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered.  He  could  not  control  his 
voice.     "  I  waited  to  tell  you  till  the  very  last. " 


The  Honeymoon  267 

She  lifted  her  hands  and  caressed  the  back  of  his 
head.  "Good-bye,  then,  my  own  man.  God  be  with 
you,  my  dearest,"  she  murmured  brokenly. 

"Anne,  sweet,  you  are  good.  You  are  brave.  Oh, 
take  care  of  yourself,  my  little  girl." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  again.  Then  he  put  her 
from  him  for  the  last  time. 

"I  must  take  you  back  now,"  he  said,  slipping  his 
hand  through  her  arm. 

Anne  went,  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  and  a  weight 
as  heavy  as  doom  pressing  upon  her  heart. 


II 


When  at  last  the  numbing  influence  of  routine 
began  to  soothe  the  first  sharp  pain  of  parting  for 
Anne,  other  and  happier  influences  asserted  themselves 
also.  With  the  splendid  optimism  of  youth,  which 
always  sees  happiness  at  the  end  of  the  vista,  no  matter 
how  long  it  may  be,  she  looked  forward  to  future  joys; 
from  the  minor  but  alleviating  delight  of  receiving 
Ricky's  letters  to  the  great  moment  of  meeting,  when 
the  leaden  feet  of  the  months  should  have  meandered 
slowly  from  summer  to  autumn. 

She  had  golden  moments  of  rapture  even  while  she 
missed  him  and  longed  for  him ;  moments  in  which  her 
secret  knowledge  thrilled  her  with  delight;  moments 
in  which  she  looked  pityingly  upon  all  the  other  women 
unloved  by  Ricky.  He  was  hers;  she  was  his.  There 
was  no  possibility  of  future  misunderstanding.  No 
one  could  part  them  now.  They  were  man  and  wife 
as  irrevocably  as  the  law  could  make  them. 

Sometimes  in  the  midst  of  her  dreams  memory 


268  Drifting  Waters 

stabbed  her  with  the  recollection  of  her  mother's 
unhappiness,  her  outbursts  against  that  very  irre- 
vocability of  marriage,  the  thought  of  which  brought 
such  strange  comfort  to  Anne. 

With  the  courage  of  her  ignorance  the  girl  knew  no 
fear.  The  future  held  no  doubts.  It  was  all  rose- 
colour,  shot  with  gold.  She  was  siire  of  her  own  love, 
sure  of  Ricky's.  Yet  instinctively  she  felt  even  now 
that  the  quality  of  her  love  was  greater  than  his.  The 
himiility  which  is  one  of  love's  gifts  to  every  real  lover 
told  her  that  this  was  only  right  and  fitting.  It  was 
for  her  to  love  without  a  flaw,  for  her  to  show  herself 
worthy  of  the  strong  tower  of  defence  which  his  love 
would  build  for  her. 

The  one  thing  that  irked  her  was  the  thought  of 
having  deceived  her  mother,  the  being  she  loved  most 
after  Ricky.  Yet  she  was  painfully  aware  that  to  tell 
her  the  truth  was  to  risk  killing  her,  and  that  was 
impossible  of  conception.  She  hoped  and  prayed  for 
that  favourable  moment  which  as  yet  showed  no  sign 
of  dawning.  The  latent  jealousy  which  Mrs.  Tudor 
had  always  felt  for  Ricky  had  of  late  developed  into 
something  acute  and  bitter. 

True  to  her  resolution  to  have  no  unnecessary  decep- 
tion, Anne,  with  desperate  courage,  showed  her  mother 
Ricky's  parting  gift,  though  she  would  rather  have 
hidden  it  away  as  something  too  dear  and  sacred  for 
other  eyes  than  hers  or  his  to  see. 

At  first  the  wisdom  of  her  action  seemed  dubious. 

Mrs.  Tudor's  face  darkened. 

"I  will  not  allow  you  to  take  presents  of  jewellery 
from  men,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of  tense  and 
difficult  silence. 


The  Honeymoon  269 

"Mother,  it's  not  men.     It's " 

"It's  only  the  transcendental  one,  of  course,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Tudor,  with  a  sneer.  "At  any  rate,  Anne, 
I  will  not  have  it.     You  must  send  it  back  to  him." 

"I  can't,"  said  Anne  quickly.  "He's  on  the  high 
seas. " 

"The  best  place  for  him!  He'll  probably  marry  an 
aborigine.  I  can  imagine  him  making  an  admirable 
husband — ^for  an  Australian." 

"Even  if  I  could  send  it  back — "  began  Anne, 
trying  to  speak  calmly. 

"You  wouldn't,"  interrupted  her  mother. 

"Mother,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,"  the  girl  cried 
miserably.  "Why  may  I  not  have  any  friend  but 
you?" 

"Oh,  Anne,  don't  be  tiresome,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor, 
her  anger  fading  as  quickly  as  it  had  arisen.  "Keep 
your  wretched  bits  of  glass  if  you  like.  I  was  going  to 
give  you  pearls  on  your  birthday,  but  now " 

Anne  knelt  beside  her,  watching  with  anguish  the 
dreaded  blue  tinge  creeping  about  her  lips. 

"I  don't  want  pearls.  I  don't  want  anything.  I 
hate  to  have  a  cloud  between  you  and  me. " 

"There  need  be  no  clouds,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor 
significantly. 

"No,  not  really,"  Anne  murmured. 

Though  the  thoughts  of  both  fled  to  the  same  object 
they  differed  curiously  according  to  their  source. 

With  unconscious  cruelty  Mrs.  Tudor  launched  her 
surest  shaft,  a  shaft  that  smote  Anne  with  an  anguish 
almost  unbearable. 

"My  span  may  be  short, "  she  said,  stroking  Anne's 
hair.     "  Don't  let  us  do  anything  to  darken  it. " 


270  Drifting  Waters 

"Mother,  don't!"  cried  the  girl,  hiding  her  face 
against  her.  It  seemed  a  cruel  fate  that  her  two  loves 
should  always  clash. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  this  that  Mrs.  Tudor 
took  a  sudden  fancy  to  go  to  Cornwall.  Nothing 
daunted  her.  She  swept  aside  all  objections  and 
difficulties.  It  was  Sabina  who  raised  them,  fearing 
the  effect  of  the  journey  and  the  possibility  of  dis- 
comfort. Anne  welcomed  the  idea  of  the  sea  and  the 
change,  and  Dr.  Waldron  seconded  her,  with  sage 
warnings  against  over-exertion  and  over-excitement. 

So  it  came  svuprisingly  about,  and  without  any  of 
Sabina's  difficulties.  Day  after  day  the  "mother  and 
lover  of  men,  the  sea"  washed  away  all  trivial  jars  and 
frictions  with  the  sound  of  "the  innumerable  laughter " 
of  her  waves. 

Hope  rose  and  blossomed  anew  in  Anne.  Happi- 
ness, shorn  of  any  possibiHty  of  jealousy,  shone 
through  Margaret  Tudor's  hours. 

"We  must  do  this  often,  Anne,"  she  said,  when  at 
last  shortening  days  and  chilly  evenings  drove  them 
back  to  the  twinkling  lights  and  familiar  fireside  of 
Caroline  Place. 

"Yes, "  Anne  assented,  wondering  if  Ricky  would  be 
with  them  when  next  they  essayed  a  sea-flight,  and 
half-forecasting,  so  strongly  Hope's  beacon  shone 
upon  her  vista,  such  an  impossibly  happy  issue. 


Ill 


Richard's  letters,  eagerly  awaited,  read  and  re-read, 
loved  and  cherished  as  they  were,  generally  left  a  faint 
tinge  of  disappointment  behind  them. 


The  Honeymoon  271 

Anne,  with  her  quick  imagination  and  certainty  of 
comprehension  wrote,  to  all  the  addresses  he  had  given 
her,  long  letters  brimming  with  the  love  that  had  at 
last  found  its  outlet.  Owing  to  the  distance  of  port 
from  port  their  letters  often  crossed  without  answering 
each  other. 

Richard  wrote  regularly,  sometimes  fantastically, 
sometimes  whimsically,  of  the  places  and  people  he 
had  seen,  but  always  with  a  certain  reticence  against 
which  Anne's  expansiveness  seemed  to  beat  in  vain. 
It  was  not  that  his  letters  were  cold.  Here  and  there 
an  ardent  phrase  leaped  out  to  remind  Anne  of  the 
flame  that  she  had  lit  and  seen  burning  within  him. 

She  searched  eagerly  for  these  phrases,  conned  them 
over  and  over,  cherished  them,  put  them  away  in  her 
secret  places  for  her  secret  delight ;  but  they  were  few 
and  far  between.  Sometimes  questions,  all-important 
to  the  girl  as  she  poured  forth  her  whole  heart  and 
mind,  were  overlooked  or  left  unanswered.  This  hurt 
a  little.  Endearments,  pretty  fancies  were  ignored  or 
taken  for  granted.  Occasionally  the  longed-for  letters 
came  to  Anne  like  a  dash  of  cold  spray. 

Once  or  twice  she  upbraided  him,  but  it  seemed 
years  before  his  answer  came,  laughing  gently  at  her 
and  telling  her  that  he  could  not  write  of  what  he  felt 
most  deeply.  ' '  To  put  it  into  words  seems  to  cheapen 
it, "  he  wrote. 

Anne  pondered  this  and  realized  its  truth,  chid  her- 
self for  being  unreasonable,  resolved  to  be  less  exacting 
yet  less  intimate  when  next  she  wrote,  and  found  her 
pen  running  along  the  same  groove  of  love  the  very 
next  time  she  took  it  in  hand. 

She  counted  the  days  to  the  return  of  the  Amacaria, 


272  Drifting  Waters 

and  it  was  a  bitter  blow  to  her  when  the  letter  which 
should  have  announced  it  told  only  of  postponement. 

They  had  encountered  abnormally  bad  weather  on 
the  outward  voyage.  The  ship's  machinery  had  been 
damaged,  and  they  had  barely  escaped  shipwreck. 
The  necessary  repairs  would  take  several  weeks. 
Meantime  Richard  had  been  inundated  with  invita- 
tions from  friendly  Australians  who  had  travelled  on 
the  Amacaria,  who  wanted  to  show  him  some  of  the 
celebrated  hospitality  of  the  country.  It  seemed  a 
pity  not  to  see  something  of  the  place  when  he  was 
there,  an  opportunity  too  good  to  be  lost.  It  would 
help  him  to  put  in  time  until  the  Amacaria  was  ready 
for  her  return  voyage.  Perhaps  he  might  find  an 
opening  for  work  there.  ' '  You  never  know  your  luck ! " 

Anne  knew  hers  only  too  well.  She  put  her  head 
down  on  the  letter  and  cried  bitterly. 

It  was  a  cruel  blow.  She  had  built  happily  upon  his 
return  in  three  months,  had  counted  and  checked  the 
days,  had  thought  every  night  how  much  nearer  she 
was  to  the  longed-for  moment,  and  now  her  hopes  were 
scattered  like  a  child's  house  of  cards.  It  seemed  too 
hard  to  be  borne.  Yet,  even  as  her  passionate  tears 
stained  the  letter,  and  sent  the  words  of  disappoint- 
ment into  long  trickling  blurs,  she  knew  that  she  would 
pick  up  the  cards  again  and  build  them  into  another 
house,  whether  Fate  knocked  it  down  once  more  or  not. 

Fate  did. 

The  Amacaria,  once  more  complete,  had  to  sail 
without  Richard  Assheton  as  her  doctor.  Instead  of 
joining  her  at  the  appointed  time  he  lay  stricken  with 
typhoid  fever  in  the  house  of  some  of  his  new-found 
friends  in  the  Bush.     It  was  a  mild  attack,  but  quite 


The  Honeymoon  273 

sufficient  to  keep  him  from  returning  to  the  Amacaria, 
which  arrived  in  England  without  bringing  Anne's 
dreams  to  port. 

The  sense  of  the  distance  between  them  weighed 
upon  her  like  a  pall.  Although  he  was  well  before 
news  of  his  illness  reached  her  she  knew  too  plainly 
that  it  might  have  been  the  other  way.  Her  imagina- 
tion pictured  all  sorts  of  mischances  that  might  befall 
him.  Her  love  was  still  a  crown  plucked  from  "the 
high  rose  hedge  round  Paradise,"  but,  being  made  of 
roses,  it  was  a  crown  mingled  with  thorns. 

Their  days  of  happy  meeting,  of  lighthearted,  joy- 
ous companionship  seemed  now  like  a  beautiful,  un- 
believable dream.  The  fact  of  her  marriage  seemed  a 
phantasm.  She  had  to  look  at  the  wedding-ring  that 
came  warm  from  the  beating  of  her  heart  to  make  her- 
self believe  in  it.  Even  then  there  was  no  reality  in 
her  conviction. 

His  letters  always  took  for  granted  that  she  was  well 
and  interested  and  happy,  as  he  was,  looking  forward, 
as  he  did,  to  that  magic  Some  Day  when  they  would 
come  together  for  good  and  all. 

His  careless  assumptions  stung  Anne.  She  was  not 
happy.  Her  life  was  very  monotonous,  and  she  often 
felt  bitterly  lonely  and  desolate.  All  the  colour 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  her  days  when  Richard  left. 
Why  didn't  he  understand?  Sometimes  she  was  filled 
with  a  wild  and  swiftly-repented  desire  to  make  him 
suffer  as  she  did,  to  upbraid  him,  to  hurt  him ;  but  she 
never  did.  The  thought  of  the  months  that  stretched 
between  them  checked  her.  What  was  the  use  of 
putting  hurtful  things  on  paper?  Repentance  would 
surely  come  when  it  was  too  late  to  recall  them.  At 
18 


274  Drifting  Waters 

other  times  the  horrible  thought  that  perhaps  he 
regretted  his  bonds  tortured  both  her  love  and  her 
pride.  Even  the  lightest  shackle  irked  him,  he  had 
once  said. 

"But  he  can't  feel  these,  "  she  assured  herself 
passionately.  "  No  one  in  the  wide  world  could  feel 
less  bound  than  he. " 

Then  some  tender,  whimsical  touch  would  lay  hold 
upon  these  black  fancies  and  tear  them  to  tatters. 
Ricky  loved  her.  Nothing  could  alter  that.  She  chid 
herself  for  her  lack  of  faith  and  made  excuses  for 
every  triviality  that  fretted  her. 

She  grew  very  quiet  in  these  days  of  anxious  stress 
and  moved  about  the  house  like  a  shadow.  Sabina 
followed  her  with  beaten-up  eggs  and  glasses  of 
milk. 

"What  call  have  you  to  be  fretting?"  she  asked  at 
last.  "When  you  gets  grand  long  letters  from  himself 
nearly  every  week?  The  fat  of  them!  If  'twas  the 
way  he  was  neglecting  you  or  philandering  after  other 
ladies  you'd  have  a  right,  maybe,  to  be  peaking  and 
pining;  but  when  your  letter  comes,  with  the  funny 
stamp,  and  all,  as  regular  as  me  old  hat,  'tis  over- 
rejoiced  you  ought  to  be,  and  not  go  creeping  about 
the  house  with  a  face  like  a  ha'porth  o'  soap  after  a 
week's  washing !  So  swally  that  down  now,  and  let  me 
see  a  bit  more  life  about  you.  The  mistress  will  only 
be  noticing  if  you  don't." 

"Very  well,  Sabina, "  returned  Anne  meekly. 

Sabina's  scolding  gave  her  thoughts  a  new  turn. 
After  all,  she  was  ungrateful  and  grasping.  Sabina 
was  quite  right.  What  had  she  to  grumble  at?  Did 
not  Ricky  love  her?     Was  not  that  enough  for  her, 


The  Honeymoon  275 

who  for  so  long  had  been  content  in  her  own  unrecog- 
nized love  for  him? 

She  took  her  courage  in  both  hands  and  tried  to  see 
life  largely.  Her  mother's  needs  were  constant, 
incessant.  It  became  Anne's  joy  to  give  without 
stinting,  to  try  by  every  means  that  love  could  devise 
to  make  up  for  the  great  deception  she  had  practised 
upon  her. 

She  resolved  to  be  patient,  to  trust  Ricky,  to  resign 
herself  to  the  daily  burden  of  waiting  with  no  know- 
ledge of  the  length  of  her  probation. 

She  had  need  of  all  her  courage  and  patience,  of  all 
her  sense  of  humour  too,  which  in  lovers  sinks  sadly 
in  abeyance;  for  the  next  mail  brought  a  letter  from 
Ricky  which  widened  once  more  the  bounds  of  physi- 
cal distance  between  them. 

He  was  going  to  a  mining  camp,  he  said,  where  he 
heard  that  there  was  an  opening  for  a  doctor.  Instead 
of  capturing  a  tame  millionaire,  which  had  been  one 
of  his  earliest  hopes,  he  was  going  to  become  one  him- 
self! He  was  going  to  work  like  a  black,  an  ant,  a 
beaver — Anne  might  select  whichever  symbol  of  in- 
dustry she  preferred — make  his  pile,  and  come  back  for 
her,  who  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  who  really 
mattered.  He  would  give  it  all  to  her,  and  ask  her  to 
build  a  home  for  them  with  it.  She  was  the  only  one 
who  could  do  it.  Perhaps  the  beaver  was  best,  after 
all.     They  would  both  be  beavers.    .    .    . 

After  that  his  letters  became  shorter  and  more  in- 
frequent. The  life  was  rough,  he  wrote,  but  he  rather 
liked  it.  One  met  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and 
he  liked  that  too.  She  learned  that  piles  were  not  so 
easily  made  as  is  popularly  imagined,  but  that  the  toe 


276  Drifting  Waters 

of  his  old  stocking  was  full  already,  and  once  the  calf 
began  to  bulge  he  would  come  home  to  his  Elfin 
Princess. 

There  was  a  keen  zest  of  life  in  every  letter.  Ricky 
was  living  a  man's  life  among  men,  working,  playing, 
shooting.  Time  was  winged  for  him.  For  her  it 
lagged  and  lingered. 


IV 


Another  winter,  another  summer  crept  by,  and  there 
was  no  word  of  his  return.  Evidently  the  calf  of  his 
stocking  had  not  yet  begun  to  bulge. 

Autumn  came  again  with  its  fleeting  glory.  Golden- 
rod  and  dahlias  flamed  in  park  and  garden  and 
sumachs  fluttered  little  bannerets  of  crimson  and 
amber. 

The  yellowing  leaves  of  the  plane-trees  fell  flat 
upon  road  and  pavement,  and  mists  at  morning  and 
evening  veiled  the  river  and  the  grey  warehouse 
chimneys.  Dusks  were  still  shot  with  a  golden  haze, 
but  the  evening  skies  were  clear  and  chill. 

There  was  a  bite  in  the  air  that  told  of  the  approach 
of  winter,  that  laid  chilly  fingers  on  Mrs.  Tudor's  frail 
body  and  sent  her  shivering  to  bed. 

Anne,  ever  alert  where  her  mother  was  concerned, 
sent  at  once  for  Dr.  Waldron,  who  made  light  of  the 
ailment. 

"A  little  chill,"  he  said  to  Anne  in  Mrs.  Tudor's 
room.  "Warmth,  quiet,  and  light  food.  A  Httle 
extra  stimulant,  perhaps.  I  will  give  Sabina  instruc- 
tions. No  excitement,  of  course,  and  she  will  pro- 
bably be  finely  tomorrow.     I  shall  look  in  again  this 


The  Honeymoon  2']'] 

evening,  Miss  Anne,  to  see  if  anything  else  is  necessary 
for  the  night." 

Anne  thanked  him  with  all  the  fervour  of  relief. 

Mrs.  Tudor  looked  with  amused  eyes  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"I  told  Anne  that  she  was  very  officious  to  send  for 
you.  Dr.  Waldron, "  she  said,  with  unwonted  gracious- 
ness.  "She  is  a  foolish  child.  She  worries  so  if  there 
is  the  least  little  thing  the  matter  with  me. " 

"She  is  quite  right, "  he  returned  with  a  swift  glance 
towards  Anne.  "We  are  always  inclined  to  fuss  a 
little  over  what  is  precious  to  us.  An  affair  of  this 
kind  can  often  be  nipped  in  the  bud  at  the  beginning, 
but  if  neglected — "  he  gave  a  queer  little  nod.  "It's 
turned  chilly  today,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  find 
bed  the  most  comfortable  place,  Mrs.  Tudor.  You 
must  stay  there,  please,  till  I  give  you  leave  to 
move." 

"I  don't  really  mind,"  she  said,  still  with  a  little 
smile  about  her  lips.  "If  I  can  have  Anne  to  read  to 
me  and  Ponsonby  to  talk  to  I  shall  be  quite  happy 
here.     I  really  feel  too  lazy  to  want  to  stir. " 

Dr.  Waldron  smiled  too  and  made  an  awkward  bow 
towards  Anne,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face. 

"  Miss  Anne  would  be  as  good  as  any  tonic,  I  should 
think,  but  Ponsonby — !  Well,  have  him  up  if  you 
like,"  he  said  hastily  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Tudor's  brows 
draw  together,  "but  I  should  be  inclined  to  describe 
him  as  a  counter-irritant!" 

"Perhaps  I  want  a  counter-irritant." 

"All  that  milady  wants  she  shall  have, "  quoted  the 
doctor  unexpectedly.  "  Do  you  remember  that  horrid 
Arab  servant  in  Bella  Donna? '^ 


278  Drifting  Waters 

"I  never  read  the  book,"  said  Mrs.  Tudor,  "but  it 
sounds  rather  Hke  humouring  a  condemned  criminal." 

" Mother!"  cried  Anne,  taking  a  swift  step  forward. 

In  spite  of  her  first  relief  something  in  Dr.  Waldron's 
attitude  frightened  her  a  little.  An  unacknowledged 
fear  pricked  at  her  heart — a  fear  which  her  mother's 
phrase  seemed  to  put  into  brutal  words. 

Dr.  Waldron,  who  saw  a  good  deal  under  his  light 
eyelashes,  noticed  the  girl's  expression.  His  sus- 
ceptible heart  ached  for  her.  There  was  still  a  soft 
place  in  it  for  Anne,  though  he  had  realized  long  ago 
that  his  spring  fancy  had  vanished  with  that  self- 
same spring. 

"By  no  means, "  he  said.  "Please  don't  run  away 
with  the  idea  that  you're  to  have  unlimited  humouring, 
Mrs.  Tudor.  Miss  Anne  may  spoil  you  as  much  as 
she  likes,  but  I  am  going  to  send  you  in  a  bottle  with  a 
peculiarly  nasty  taste. " 

"Which  will  make  you  quite  well  again,  won't  it, 
Dr.  Waldron?"  asked  Anne,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

"It  will  do  her  a  lot  of  good  if  she  carries  out  my 
instructions  exactly.  I  trust  you  to  see  to  that.  Miss 
Anne. "  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  as  he  turned  to 
leave  the  room.  Then,  as  if  on  an  after-thought  he 
added:  "Perhaps  you'd  better  come  down  and  fetch 
Ponsonby  now,  Miss  Anne.  I'll  carry  up  his  stand 
for  you." 

As  they  went  down  the  stairs  together  he  said 
casually : 

"  I  wouldn't  read  too  much  to  your  mother  if  I  were 
you.  Keep  her  as  quiet  as  you  can,  but  if  she  wants  to 
talk  don't  prevent  her.  Excitement  of  any  sort  is  bad 
for  her.     That  heart,  you  know.     It's  a  case  of  cause 


The  Honeymoon  279 

and  effect — makes  her  a  bit  restless  and  exacting. 
Don't  leave  that  bird  in  her  room  too  long  if  you  can 
help  it.     His  scream  might  startle  her." 

"He  doesn't  scream  when  she's  there,"  Anne  said. 
Then  turning  suddenly  to  him:  "Oh,  Dr.  Waldron,  do 
you  think  she's  seriously  ill? " 

"No,"  he  answered  frankly,  "not  at  present. 
Quiet,  warmth,  and  treatment  will  probably  restore  her 
to  her  normal  state  in  a  few  days.  You'd  rather  I  told 
you  the  truth.  Miss  Anne?" 

"Yes,  yes.  The  truth,  please,  above  all  things." 
She  clasped  her  hands  nervously  together. 

"We  must  be  careful,"  he  said  quietly,  seeking  for 
words.  "Her  circulation  is  poor.  Her  heart,  you 
know,  is  not  all  that  it  might  be. " 

Anne  moved  impatiently.  He  seemed  to  be  repeat- 
ing the  same  things  over  and  over  again. 

"  Is  there  anything  special  for  me  to  do  ?  Anjrthing 
I  am  to  guard  against?" 

Dr.  Waldron  thought  for  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  answered  at  last.  "Just  keep  her  warm 
and  quiet,  and  don't  thwart  or  excite  her. " 

"Very  well,"  said  Anne,  unhooking  the  cockatoo 
from  his  perch. 

Ponsonby  screamed  shrilly  and  made  a  dart  at  Dr. 
Waldron  as  he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hold  of  the 
stand. 

"Amiable  bird,"  he  remarked,  drawing  away 
quickly. 

"  Mother  is  the  sole  person  he  really  likes.  He  only 
tolerates  me,  eh,  Ponsonby?"  She  tickled  the  bird 
behind  his  head,  and  in  a  movement  of  pleasure  he 
erected  his  yellow  crest,  looking  up  at  her  with  one 


28o  Drifting  Waters 

knowing  eye.     Dr.  Waldron  thought  that  they  made 
a  perfect  picture. 

In  silence  she  left  the  room.  Dr.  Waldron  followed 
with  the  stand.  He  had  said  as  much  as  was  necessary 
without  frightening  her.  He  could  be  more  frank 
with  Sabina. 

"You  know,  Miss  Anne, "  came  his  voice  behind  her 
as  they  went  up  the  stairs,  "if  Mrs.  Tudor  should  be — ■ 
not  quite  so  well,  or  if  you  should  feel  in  any  way 
nervous  about  her,  send  in  for  me  at  once.  I'll  be 
ready  to  come  whenever  you  want  me,  and  in  any 
case  I'll  look  in  again  this  evening.  One  thing" — 
he  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  bedroom — "don't 
put  the  bottle  with  those  drops  anywhere  out  of  reach." 

"What  were  you  two  plotting  and  planning?" 
asked  Mrs.  Tudor  as  they  came  in. 

"How  best  to  get  you  well  again,"  answered  Dr. 
Waldron  promptly.  "I  don't  find  that  your  bird 
improves  on  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Tudor.  He  did  his 
best  to  take  a  bit  out  of  my  hand. " 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  but  her  eyes,  which  looked 
very  large  and  black  in  the  sharpened  oval  of  her  face, 
held  no  regret  in  their  depths. 

She  was  glad  that  Ponsonby,  bird  though  he  was, 
was  all  hers  and  friendly  to  no  other,  and  she  had  the 
same  sense  of  possessive  triumph  in  Anne's  complete 
devotion.  Anne  was  hers  now,  all  hers,  she  felt 
proudly  sure.  She  had  never  mentioned  Richard's 
name  since  the  day  he  left  England.  Some  sudden 
impulse  prompted  her  as  Dr.  Waldron  left  the  room. 
She  beckoned  Anne  to  her. 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  from  your  aborigine?  "  she  asked 
almost  in  a  whisper. 


The  Honeymoon  281 

Anne's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still,  the  question  was 
so  utterly  unexpected. 

"Yes,  mother,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Has  he  married  his  Maori  yet?" 

"He's  at  a  mining  camp  in  Australia.  Maoris  are 
in  New  Zealand." 

"Tiresome  literal  creature! "  said  Mrs.  Tudor  with  a 
little  smile.  "Don't  tell  me  any  more  about  him. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  asked.  Some  silly  im- 
pulse, I  suppose.  Just  a  desire  to  know  that  he  was 
still  at  the  Antipodes  and  not  likely  to  come  between 
you  and  me  again." 

"No  one  could  do  that,"  Anne  assured  her,  for 
about  the  hundredth  time.  Her  heart  sank,  and  she 
felt  an  uncontrolled  longing  for  Ricky's  presence.  If 
she  could  only  see  him,  feel  the  warm  reassurance  of  his 
clasp,  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  tell  him  all  her 
vague  formless  fears,  what  an  untold  comfort  it  would 
be! 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Waldron's  kindness  she  felt  terribly 
alone  and  inexperienced.  The  thought  of  Richard 
brought  a  lump  in  her  throat  and  tears  to  her  eyes. 
She  turned  away  from  the  bed  and  moved  Ponsonby's 
stand  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire. 


When  Mrs.  Tudor  lay  dozing  that  afternoon  Sabina 
tiptoed  into  the  room  and  gave  a  letter  to  Anne. 

It  was  from  Richard 

"It's  got  a  queer  stamp  on  it,"  whispered  Sabina. 
"Run  away  with  yourself  and  read  it.  I'll  stay  here  in 
case  the  mistress  wakes. " 


282   .  Drifting  Waters 

The  usual  sense  of  excitement  stirred  faintly  in 
Anne  as  she  took  the  letter  in  her  hand.  She  went 
into  her  own  bedroom  to  read  it.  She  hated  to  be  in 
the  sitting-room  without  her  mother.  The  empty 
room  seemed  menacing,  terrifying  almost  without  the 
familiar  figure  whose  presence  seemed  to  be  its  utmost 
essential. 

She  stood  by  the  window  and  looked  at  the  stamp 
before  she  opened  the  envelope.  The  room  seemed 
to  spin  when  she  saw  that  instead  of  the  familiar 
Australian  device  it  bore  the  head  of  a  sphinx  and  an 
Egyptian  postmark. 

Her  pulses  beat  furiously  and  her  heart  gave  one 
great  leap.  An  Egyptian  postmark !  He  must  be  on 
his  way  home,  then.  Egypt,  in  comparison  with 
Australia,  was  almost  home  in  thought.  He  would  be 
here  nearly  as  soon  as  his  letter. 

How  wonderful,  how  unbelievable,  and  yet  how 
natural  that  he  should  have  been  sent  to  her  now  in 
her  hour  of  need! 

With  trembling  fingers  she  tore  open  the  envelope, 
drew  out  the  letter  and  kissed  it  quickly  before  she 
read  it.  Afterwards  she  was  glad  that  she  had  done 
this,  for  otherwise  it  would  have  been  the  first  of  his 
letters  to  go  unkissed. 

Once  more  Fate  had  knocked  down  her  house  of 
cards,  but  this  time  it  seemed  that  the  house  must  have 
been  built  of  something  more  substantial,  it  hurt  so 
in  the  falling. 

She  grew  cold  to  her  trembling  lips  as  she  read. 
She  had  been  raised  to  such  a  pinnacle  of  hope  by  the 
Egypt 'an  postmark  that  the  subsequent  disappoint- 
ment seemed  all  the  more  cruel. 


The  Honeymoon  283 

It  was  a  short  letter  and,  written  with  great  en- 
thusiasm, told  of  a  strange  change  in  his  fortunes.  It 
assumed  previous  knowledge  on  her  part.  Evidently 
his  last  letter  had  gone  astray. 

Did  she  remember  Moussa  Bey,  the  rich  Egyptian 
merchant,  owner  of  watered  lands  and  palm-groves 
innvunerable,  who  had  travelled  out  as  far  as  Port  Said 
in  the  Amacaria?  He,  Richard,  had  cured  him  of 
seasickness  and  some  other  minor  ailment,  and  the  man 
had  vowed  untold  gratitude.  He  had  told  Anne  about 
it  at  the  time.  Moussa  Bey  had  invited  him  to  stay 
with  him  if  he  ever  visited  Egypt,  but  that  had  not 
seemed  very  likely  then.  From  the  further  context  of 
the  letter  it  appeared  that  Richard  had  got  tired  of 
waiting  for  his  stocking  to  fill  and  that  he  had  started 
for  home.  By  some  unexplained  chance  he  had  come 
across  Moussa  Bey  in  his  hotel  at  Sydney.  The  man 
was  ill  with  some  obscure  disease.  He  clung  to  Rich- 
ard, in  whom  he  seemed  to  have  complete  faith  ("Silly 
old  beggar!"),  and  insisted  on  his  returning  to  Egypt 
with  him  instead  of  going  back  to  England. 

"So  here  I  am  installed  as  Haktm-in-chiel  to  the  old 
gentleman,  who  swears  that  I  have  saved  his  life. 
He  says  that  I  shall  soon  build  up  quite  a  good  practice 
here  among  the  Copts  and  Europeans.  The  town  is 
picturesque,  and  the  whole  life  rather  like  the  Arabian 
Nights.  He  is  to  get  me  a  house  later  on.  What 
about  bujang  a  pair  of  green  silk  trousers  and  joining 
me,  Anne?  You  would  look  adorable  in  green  silk 
trousers. " 

Anne  read  no  further.  The  light  words  stung  un- 
bearably. Hot  angry  tears  filled  her  eyes.  He  should 
have  come  home.     He  should  never  have  left  her  like 


284  Drifting  Waters 

this.  His  place  was  here  at  her  side  in  her  hour  of 
need — and  he  jested  about  green  silk  trousers!  It 
was  intolerable.  She  was  not  to  be  whistled  back  to 
his  hand  like  a  bird — yet  deep  down,  how  she  longed 
to  be  whistled  back.  She  dashed  the  tears  from  her 
eyes  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  She  was  not  going 
to  cry.  Why  should  she  cry  because  Richard  did  not 
choose  to  come  back  to  her?  He  did  not  care,  that 
was  all.  He  could  not  care,  or  else  he  would  never 
let  any  stray  piping  lure  him  from  the  path  that  led 
to  her.  He  did  not  want  to  come;  very  well,  then,  she 
did  not  want  him  either.  At  that  moment  it  seemed  as 
if  something  had  been  killed  in  Anne.  Some  quality 
of  her  love  seemed  to  lie  slain  before  her.  The  end  of 
something  seemed  to  have  come. 

What?  She  did  not  know.  She  did  not  try  to 
analyse  just  then.  Something  was  over.  That  was 
all.  She  had  leaned  upon  a  prop  and  it  had  broken 
and  pierced  her. 

Now  she  wanted  all  her  strength  for  her  mother. 
She  must  not  fail  her.  She  supposed  that  she  must 
have  failed  Richard  in  some  unknown  way,  or  he 
would  never  have  let  a  stranger  come  between  them. 

She  thrust  his  letter  away,  too  sore  in  her  disap- 
pointment to  be  reasonable,  to  make  her  usual  allow- 
ances. It  did  not  matter.  Nothing  mattered  very 
much  now.  Her  mother  was  ill.  Dr.  Waldron  was 
uneasy.  She  knew  he  was,  in  spite  of  his  careful  casual- 
ness.  Richard  should  have  known,  should  have  felt 
that  she  was  in  trouble.  If  he  would  only  come  and 
put  his  arms  round  her  .  .  .  she  broke  down  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ASPHODEL 


MRS.  TUDOR  was  still  drowsy  when  Dr.  Wal- 
dron  called  that  evening. 

He  said  very  little :  took  her  pulse  and  her  tempera- 
ture, and  ordered  Anne  to  go  to  bed. 

"There  is  nothing  for  you  to  do,  Miss  Anne,"  he 
said  kindly.  "Sabina  will  sit  up  with  Mrs.  Tudor 
tonight  and  will  call  you  if  she  wants  anything.  To- 
morrow, perhaps,  if  your  mother  is  not  better  we 
might  see  about  getting  in  a  nurse. " 

He  spoke  tentatively,  glancing  at  Anne. 

She  flushed  and  put  out  her  hand  in  protest.  It  was 
an  impossible  suggestion. 

"Oh,  no,  please.  Mother  would  hate  that.  She 
cannot  bear  strangers.  Surely  Sabina  and  I  can  do 
anything  that  is  necessary.  I  am  quite  strong.  I'm 
used  to  waiting  on  her.  I  love  it.  I  know  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  have  a  stranger  touch  her. " 

"Very  well.  Miss  Anne.  We'll  see  tomorrow. 
But  off  to  bed  you  go  now.  Your  mother  is  quite 
comfortable  for  the  night.  I  don't  anticipate  any 
change,  but  if  there  should  be  one  send  in  for  me.  I'm 
on  the  spot,  you  know,  so  you  mustn't  feel  nervous. " 

285 


286  Drifting  Waters 

"Oh,  you  are  kind!  You  are  good!"  cried  Anne, 
with  a  sense  of  relief. 

She  clung  to  his  presence  as  to  knowledge  and  wis- 
dom personified.  She  forgot  his  little  mannerisms, 
the  constantly  recurring  "  Miss  Anne  "  which  once  had 
jarred.  How  trivial  these  things  seemed  now  in  the 
face  of  realities!  Anne  began  to  wonder  if  she  had 
ever  really  lived  before.  The  creeping  doubts  had 
gathered  to  a  cloud  of  fear  which  shadowed  her.  It 
seemed  as  if  Dr.  Waldron  was  the  one  person  who  could 
disperse  it.  Yet,  kind  as  he  was,  reassuring  as  he  tried 
to  be,  he  did  not  succeed  in  doing  so. 

"Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger?"  she  asked 
breathlessly,  hanging  on  his  answer  as  if  he  held  the 
keys  of  life  and  death. 

His  heart  smote  him  as  he  looked  at  the  white  eager 
face.  With  his  knowledge  of  the  condition  of  Mrs. 
Tudor's  heart  he  could  say  little  that  was  encouraging. 

"I  don't  believe  that  there  is  any  immediate  dan- 
ger," he  said  at  last,  cautiously.  "With  a  heart  like 
your  mother's  one  has  to  be  careful.  You  may  trust 
Sabina  to  call  you  if  it  is  necessary,  but  you  must  go 
to  bed,  Miss  Anne.  You'll  want  all  your  strength  for 
tomorrow  if  you  are  to  do  your  mother  any  good. " 

"But  what  about  Sabina?" 

"Is  it  me?"  said  Sabina,  who  had  followed  the 
doctor  into  the  room.  "Sure  I  can  take  a  little  cat- 
nap whenever  I  like.  I  can  go  to  sleep  when  I  like 
and  wake  up  when  I  like.  My  mother  was  just  the 
same,  and  I  take  after  her.  'Twas  the  way  she  had  a 
little  knack." 

"A  very  useful  knack,"  commented  Dr.  Waldron. 
"Now,  Miss  Anne,  as  soon  as  Sabina  lets  me  out  you 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel        287 

go  off  to  bed,  and  I'll  hope  for  a  good  account  in  the 
morning." 

Sabina  followed  him  out  of  the  room  as  she  had 
followed  him  into  it.  Anne  crept  back  to  her  mother's 
side  when  they  had  gone,  and  gazed  at  the  beloved 
face,  now  so  heavy  and  unresponsive. 

She  felt  frightened,  fearing  vaguely  what  she  dared 
not  put  into  words.  She  slipped  her  hand  under  the 
bedclothes  and  felt  for  her  mother's.  It  was  hot  and 
dry.  As  she  clasped  it  the  heavy  lids  were  raised  with 
difficulty  and  the  dark  eyes  looked  at  her  with  a  smile 
in  their  depths. 

"My  littlest,"  murmured  Margaret  Tudor. 

Anne  could  scarcely  hear  what  she  said,  but  she 
kissed  and  stroked  the  hot  hand  that  now  lay  inertly 
in  hers,  while  the  fear  deepened. 

Downstairs  in  the  hall  Sabina  detained  the  doctor 
for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  her  at  all,"  she  said 
bluntly. 

' '  Nor  I, "  Dr.  Waldron  admitted.  ' '  If  her  tempera- 
ture should  go  up  suddenly  or  if  you  see  any  definite 
change  come  in  for  me  at  once.  I  shall  be  ready.  I 
didn't  like  suggesting  to  stay  in  the  house  for  fear  of 
alarming  that  poor  girl.  Not  that  we  can  do  more 
than  we  are  doing,  but  with  a  heart  like  that  you  never 
can  tell.     It  may  go  at  any  moment. " 

"God  help  us  all,"  said  Sabina.  "Thank  you,  sir. 
Go  home  now  and  get  a  bit  of  rest  while  you  can. 
'Tis  a  very  uneasy  feeling  I  have  about  me  this 
night. " 

She  closed  the  door  quietly  after  him  and  went 
upstairs  again. 


288  Drifting  Waters 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  Sabina, "  whispered 
Anne,  as  she  came  into  the  room. 

"I  know  that,  child,  but  what  good  can  you  be 
doing  here?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Anne  wearily.  "I  can 
look  at  her  at  any  rate. " 

"  A  lot  of  good  that'll  do  the  both  of  you !  I  tell  you 
what.  Just  take  off  your  clothes  and  slip  on  your 
dressing-gown,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  lie 
down  on  the  outside  of  it  with  the  down  quilt  over 
you,  and  I  give  you  my  word,  I'll  call  you  if  she  so 
much  as  stirs. " 

Anne  saw  the  sense  in  Sabina's  words.  She  sud- 
denly felt  an  intense  weariness.  The  day  had  been 
interminable.  Centuries  seemed  to  separate  her  from 
the  ordinary  life  of  yesterday.  The  normal  routine 
had  changed  into  an  abnormal  routine  of  which  her 
mother  was  more  than  ever  the  central  figure,  A 
menace  seemed  to  hang  over  the  simplest  actions,  and 
above  all  a  sense  of  helplessness  weighted  her  down. 

"She's  sleeping  quietly,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
Sabina,  as  if  asking  for  reassurance.  "I  think  she 
looks  a  little  better  tonight." 

"That  fine  sleep  is  bound  to  do  her  good, "  answered 
Sabina  stoutly.  "Give  her  a  little  kiss  and  go  off 
to  your  own  bed,  child." 

Anne  leaned  over  the  still  figure  and  kissed  her 
forehead  lightly ;  then  stood  looking  at  her. 

"What  about  Ponsonby?"  she  asked.  "Hadn't 
we  better  put  him  outside  on  the  landing?" 

"Better  leave  him  where  he  is,  I  made  to  take  him 
out  of  the  room  when  you  went  downstairs  for  your  bit 
of  dinner,  and  she  opened  her  eyes  at  once  and  said: 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel        289 

'Don't  touch  Ponsonby!'  Quite  sharp,  like  that. 
It  might  only  fret  her  if  we  moved  him,  Miss  Anne. " 

"We  mustn't  do  that  at  any  cost,"  said  Anne,  glanc- 
ing back  at  her  mother  again  as  she  went  towards  the 
door.  "Remember,  Sabina,  I  trust  you  to  come  and 
call  me  if  you  want  me  for  anything. " 

"Indeed  I  will,  child.  Try  and  get  a  good  sleep 
now." 

"I  do  hope  she  will  be  better  tomorrow." 

"Sure  we're  doing  our  best  to  make  her  so,  poor  Dr. 
Longlegs  and  all,"  said  Sabina  in  her  most  ordinary 
tones.  "Miss  Anne,  I'll  get  cross  now  if  you  don't  go 
off  to  bed." 

The  familiar  phrase  took  Anne  back  to  the  days  of 
her  childhood,  and  in  some  inexplicable  way  cheered 
her  a  little.  She  went  to  bed  with  a  corner  of  the 
cloud  lifted  off  her  heart. 

"Sure  hope  is  cheap,"  thought  Sabina  to  herself 
as  she  watched  her  go,  "if  so  be  you  haven't  to  pay 
too  dear  for  it  in  the  end. " 


II 


Ever  since  her  dream-marriage  Anne  had  gone  to 
sleep  with  her  wedding-ring  in  her  hand.  Tonight 
she  did  not  draw  it  from  its  resting-place  as  usual. 
A  gulf  seemed  to  be  fixed  between  her  and  Richard — a 
gulf  which,  for  the  moment,  she  had  no  desire  to 
bridge.  He  had  receded,  of  his  own  accord.  To  her 
hurt  consciousness  he  seemed  almost  at  vanishing- 
point  in  the  perspective.  So  she  left  the  little  ring  in 
its  place  above  her  heart,  whose  quick  beating  seemed 
to  give  the  lie  to  her  sore  impulse.     It  was  .curious, 


290  Drifting  Waters 

therefore,  that  when  she  woke  later,  startled  at  a  touch 
upon  her  shoulder,  the  ring  should  be  clasped,  warm 
and  close,  in  her  hand  as  usual. 

She  thrust  it  into  her  bosom  as  she  sat  up  and  rubbed 
her  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Sabina?     Is  she  worse?"  she  cried. 

Her  heart  sank  at  sight  of  Sabina's  face,  drawn  and 
anxious. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  her  at  all,  child.  She's 
sitting  up  in  bed  talking  to  herself  like.  I  put  her 
dressing- jacket  round  her,  and  then  she  asked  for 
Ponsonby." 

"But  that  sounds  better,"  said  Anne. 

"  It  is  not  better.  Miss  Anne,  and  'tis  a  bad  hour  for 
a  change.  Go  you  in  to  her,  and  I'll  be  off  for  the 
doctor  as  fast  as  my  legs  can  carry  me. " 

In  a  moment  Anne  was  out  of  bed. 

She  heard  Sabina's  steps  clattering  down  the  stairs, 
and  the  click  of  the  hall-door  as  she  ran  into  her 
mother's  room. 

A  screen  had  been  placed  by  the  door.  As  Anne 
came  round  it  the  sound  of  low  soft  speech  and  happy 
laughter  reached  her — a  sound  so  incongruous,  so 
unexpected  that  it  smote  her  more  chilly  than  cough 
or  moan  would  have  done.  She  came  quickly  towards 
the  bed,  and  stood  for  a  startled  instant  at  its  foot. 

The  room  was  dusk  save  for  a  subdued  glow  from  the 
fire.  The  only  light  came  from  a  hooded  lamp  which 
stood  on  a  table  near  the  bed.  This  Sabina  had  turned 
towards  Mrs.  Tudor  when  she  roused  from  her  leth- 
argy, and  its  fan  of  light  was  concentrated  on  her, 
detaching  her  with  a  curious  vividness  from  the  sur- 
rounding shadows. 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel        291 

She  sat  upright,  propped  by  pillows.  A  purple  silk 
jacket  embroidered  in  bronze  and  gold  chrysanthe- 
mums fell  softly  about  her.  Her  hair  had  loosened 
and  framed  her  face,  which  Anne  scarcely  recog- 
nized, so  alert,  so  revivified,  so  startingly  young  did 
it  look.  The  heavy  lids  were  raised  and  the  great 
dark  eyes  shone  with  an  unearthly  beauty.  The  thin 
cheeks  were  flushed  to  a  vivid  rose,  the  lips  parted  in 
a  smile,  half-tender,  half-mocking.  Ponsonby  was 
perched  upon  her  shoulder  with  yellow  crest  erect, 
moving  his  head  from  side  to  side  jerkily.  She 
rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  breast  and  laughed, 
looking  the  while  at  some  unseen  person  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eyes,  with  a  coquetry  that  terrified  Anne. 

"Mother!     Mother!     What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

Margaret  Tudor  took  no  notice.  For  her  at  the 
moment  the  child,  who  had  been  the  chief  preoccupa- 
tion of  her  life,  had  ceased  to  exist,  or  rather  had  no 
being.  Her  eyes  looked  through  her,  challenging, 
coquetting,  to  that  unknown  person  beyond.  Her 
babble  of  satisfied  laughter  and  trivialities  went 
on  without  check. 

"Mother?"  cried  Anne  again  la3dng  her  hand  on 
her  arm. 

Ponsonby  looked  down  at  her  and  sidled  a  little 
nearer,  but  Margaret  Tudor  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
The  agony  in  the  girl's  voice  did  not  reach  her.  With 
a  little  gentle  mechanical  gesture  she  shook  off  the 
detaining  hand  as  one  would  shake  off  something 
annoying. 

"  But  Godfrey,  what  dear  folly ! "  she  went  on  softly, 
smiling  and  looking  up  under  her  long  eyelashes. 
"You're  not  really  in  earnest,  boy,  are  you?" 


292  Drifting  Waters 

Then  Anne  realized  with  a  stab  of  pain  that  twenty- 
one  years  had  rolled  aside  like  a  scroll  and  that  her 
mother  had  stepped  back  into  the  past,  away  from 
her;  held,  as  in  those  early  days  of  joy,  as  in  these  later 
maimed  and  broken  years,  by  the  Godfrey  Tudor  who 
had  made  shipwreck  of  her  life. 

There  was  something  terrifying  in  the  nodding, 
smiling  figure,  talking  love-nonsense  to  the  unseen 
presence  of  the  man  who  had  helped  to  make  her 
tragedy.  Anne  felt  the  grip  of  the  Tudors  as  she  had 
not  felt  it  for  years. 

"Even  now  they  will  not  let  me  have  her, **  she  cried 
to  herself  with  fierce  passion.  "Even  now  he  keeps 
her  from  me,  as  he  has  kept  the  best  part  of  her  from 
me  all  these  years. " 

She  stood  by  the  end  of  the  bed,  catching  the  rail 
with  such  force  that  her  hand  grew  cramped.  Her 
eyes  never  left  her  mother's  face,  though  it  hurt  her 
like  a  whip-lash  every  time  the  unconscious  smiling 
gaze  rested  on  her  and  passed  away  without  seeing. 
She  hated  the  obsession  which  held  her,  the  power 
which  brought  back  the  youth  to  her  face,  the  love- 
light  to  her  eyes,  those  unknown  tones  to  her  voice. 
A  swift  rush  of  jealousy  inflamed  her.  She  knew  now 
how  her  mother  had  felt  about  her  and  Ricky,  about 
any  one  who  came  between. 

On  the  thought  came  quick  repentance.  Her  love 
for  her  mother  leaped  up  in  a  piire  flame  that  burned 
away  the  dross  of  self.  She  was  happy  for  once;  the 
only  time  in  her  whole  life  that  Anne  had  seen  her 
happy.  How  should  she  grudge  her  her  moment  even 
if  it  were  only  an  illusion?  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel        293 

"It's  absurd  of  you  to  be  jealous,  Godfrey,"  the 
light  laughing  words  went  on.  "Ponsonby's  only  a 
bird.  Such  a  dear  bird  too — eh,  bad  old  fellow?" 
She  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  breast  and  the  bird 
moved  uneasily,  raising  first  one  claw,  and  then  the 
other.  " Oh,  it's  Colonel  Ponsonby  you  mean!  More 
and  more  ridiculous!  Oh,  you  silly,  silly  boy.  As 
if  anybody  could  feel  romantic  about  a  person  named 
Ponsonby!  Think  of  his  legs!  Think  of  his  nose! 
It's  too  absurd  for  words ! " 

She  seemed  to  listen  for  an  answer.  The  light 
babble  smote  Anne  unbearably.  She  raised  her  head 
at  the  silence  and  saw  a  radiance  steal  into  her  mo- 
ther's face,  transfiguring  it.  Never  had  she  seen  that 
look  there  before;  never  had  she  heard  such  a  note  in 
her  voice.  She  shrank  back,  feeling  that  she  had  no 
right  to  be  there,  that  her  presence  was  an  intrusion 
on  something  sacred,  something  intimate. 

"Ah,  my  heart's  darling,  what  need  have  you  to  be 
jealous?"  whispered  Margaret  Tudor  in  the  softest  of 
crooning  tones.  "Don't  you  know  that  I  am  yours, 
body  and  soul?  Every  beat  of  my  heart,  every  throb 
of  my  blood  is  yours.  All  that  is  greatest,  all  that  is 
least  of  me  is  yours,  yours,  yours.  You  are  in  every 
breath  I  draw,  you  are  in  every  thought,  waking  or 
sleeping.  Don't  you  know  that  your  lightest  touch 
is  a  joy,  that  the  mere  sound  of  your  step  would  waken 
me  if  I  were  dead?  Don't  you  know  that  I  am  you, 
that  you  are  me?  That  if  the  gods  gave  me  a  wish 
I  would  wish  that  we  could  be  so  closely  welded  to- 
gether that  I  would  not  know  where  I  ended  and  you 
began."  The  passionate  words  sank  to  a  whisper, 
a   mere   breath.     "Godfrey!     Godfrey!"     Her   tone 


294  Drifting  Waters 

rose  and  sharpened.  "You  love  me  like  that  too, 
don't  you?"  Her  brows  drew  together.  The  light 
in  her  eyes  faded  a  little. 

Anne  held  her  breath.  Through  the  night  stillness 
she  heard  the  click  of  the  hall-door,  the  sound  of  steps 
below.  They  must  not  come  in.  This  was  not  for 
them.  This  was  her  mother's  secret,  unguarded,  all 
defences  down.  She  felt  as  if  her  soul  lay  naked  there 
and  that  she  must  cover  it. 

Margaret  Tudor  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  smiled 
again. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know  I'm  silly.  I  know  that  men 
and  women  are  different,  and  that  they  love  differ- 
ently. You  say  they  do,  but  I  don't  see  why  they 
should.  Godfrey,  if  you — if  I — Godfrey,  don't  go 
away. " 

The  steps  were  coming  quickly  up  the  stairs,  nearer 
and  nearer. 

Anne  ran  out  to  stop  them.  At  the  edge  of  the 
screen  her  mother's  voice  arrested  her, 

* '  Anne ! ' '  she  cried  sharply.  All  the  glow  had  faded. 
There  was  a  bewildered  look  in  her  clouding  eyes. 

"Mother!     Darling!"  Anne  cried,  running  to  her. 

"Anne,  he's  gone!"  she  whispered,  with  a  pitiful 
quiver  of  her  lips. 

Her  head  sank  back  on  Anne's  shoulder. 

With  a  shrill  scream  Ponsonby  took  flight.  His 
white  wings  beat  against  wall  and  ceiling  before  he 
subsided  heavily  on  his  perch.  Dr.  Waldron  and 
Sabina  entered  hastily.  Sabina  was  panting.  Her 
heavy  breaths  seemed  to  be  the  only  sound  audible. 

One  look  was  enough  for  both. 

"  God  help  us  all ! "  cried  Sabina. 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel       295 
m 

Anne  was  stunned  by  her  mother's  death.  It 
seemed  unbelievable,  impossible ;  yet,  by  some  strange 
paradox,  a  fact  that  she  had  known  for  ever. 

She  let  no  one  touch  or  approach  her  grief.  None 
saw  her  tears.  She  had  a  frozen  gentleness  for  those 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact,  after  her  first  wild 
outburst  on  Sabina's  shoulder. 

The  Egertons  hastened  up  from  Trent  at  the  news. 
Anne  shrank  from  her  Aunt  Nancy's  outspoken 
sympathy. 

"Please  don't,"  she  begged  at  sight  of  her  tears. 
"  I  know  how  kind  you  mean  to  be,  dear  Aunt  Nancy, 
but  I  really  can't  bear  it.  If  you  wouldn't  mind  just 
talking  about  ordinary  things.  I  really  would  like 
to  hear  about  ordinary  things. " 

"But  I  can't  think  about  ordinary  things,  you  poor 
darling, "  said  Mrs.  Egerton,  drying  her  eyes. 

"  Please  try,"  Anne  persisted,  looking  away  from  her. 
"Tell  me  about  Boris,  and  Matty,  and  the  chickens." 

Mrs.  Egerton  felt  rebuffed  and  told  her  husband 
afterwards  that  she  could  not  understand  Anne. 
She  really  began  to  agree  with  Mrs.  Damer  that  the 
girl  was  queer. 

"Let  her  alone, "  advised  Mr.  Egerton.  "The  poor 
child  has  had  a  terrible  shock.  She  has  lost  the  one 
she  loved  best  of  all.     She  has  only  us  now. " 

"I  wonder  if  Godfrey " 

"Don't  try  to  precipitate  matters  there,  Nancy,  I 
beg  of  you.  Interference  at  such  a  time  may  do  more 
harm  than  good.  The  child  is  sore  against  the  Tudors. 
I  think  you  will  regret  it  extremely  if  you  make  any 


296  Drifting  Waters 

suggestions  on  the  subject  of  your  brother  to  her 
now, " 

Mrs.  Egerton  wrinkled  her  brows.  Then  an  old 
wonder  returned  to  prick  her. 

"I  can't  understand  why  she  and  Ricky  haven't 
come  together.  It  would  be  such  an  eminently  suit- 
able match.  They  were  made  for  each  other,  I  think, 
and  they  always  seemed  to  hit  it  off  so  well. " 

"Perhaps  that  is  why." 

"What  is  why,  Robert?" 

"  Perhaps  the  match  is  too  suitable  a  one  to  come  to 
anything.     I  have  often  noticed " 

"Sabina  tells  me  that  he  was  here  constantly  before 
he  went  to  Australia.  The  foolish  creature,  flying  off 
to  the  Antipodes  like  that !  Her  money  would  be  so 
useful  to  him,  too.  Mr.  Cromwell  says  that  Anne  will 
have  nearly  a  thousand  a  year  of  her  own. " 

"I  know.     I  am  poor  Margaret's  executor. " 

"You  are!  And  you  never  told  me.  Bobbady, 
how  secretive  of  you!" 

"She  asked  me  some  years  ago.  The  first  time 
Anne  came  to  Trent.  I  really  did  not  think  that  the 
matter  concerned  any  one  but  poor  Margaret  and  my- 
self.    Poor  girl,  hers  was  a  sad  and  stormy  life. " 

"Part  of  the  shipwreck  was  of  her  own  making. 
Poor  Margot!"  sighed  Mrs.  Egerton.  "Anne  must 
come  to  us.  Her  room  and  her  welcome  are  waiting 
for  her.     She  is  ours  now. " 

"It  will  be  pleasant  to  have  her  at  Trent, "  said  Mr. 
Egerton,  brightening. 

His  sympathy  was  easier  for  Anne  to  bear  than  Mrs. 
Egerton's.  He  just  held  her  hand  in  silence  for  a  while 
and  then  said  gently: 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel       297 

"Remember  you  still  have  us,  my  dear." 

"She  said  you  would  be  a  friend, "  Anne  whispered, 
clinging  to  him. 

"I  hope  I  may  be  more  than  that,"  he  continued. 
"I  am  at  your  service  always,  my  child. " 

The  slow  dreadful  days  passed  like  an  incredible 
dream. 

Mrs.  Egerton  and  Sabina  saw  to  all  the  necessary 
and  meaningless  accessories.  Mr.  Egerton  arranged 
the  simple  business  affairs.  There  were  no  complica- 
tions. With  the  accumulated  interest  of  the  money 
her  father  had  settled  upon  her  and  her  mother's 
income  Anne  would  have  about  a  thousand  a  year  to 
live  on. 

The  news  did  not  interest  her.  Nothing  did.  She 
felt  as  if  the  best  part  of  her  had  died;  as  if  her  youth 
had  been  killed  and  laid  in  her  mother's  grave. 

Richard  seemed  little  more  than  a  name  to  her  in 
these  first  days  of  her  grief.  Her  love  for  him  seemed 
to  lie  slain  too. 

It  was  Sabina  who  roused  her  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
only  stunned. 

She  came  to  her  the  evening  before  the  day  fixed  for 
their  departure  for  Trent.  Her  expression  was  oddly 
set,  her  manner  unusually  tentative. 

Anne  looked  up  dully  at  her  approach.  She  noticed 
nothing  out  of  the  common  in  Sabina's  demeanour,  not 
even  the  nervous  fingers  that  pleated  her  apron,  always 
a  sign  of  unwonted  disturbance.  She  was  sunk  in  her 
own  apathy. 

"Miss  Anne — "  Sabina  began,  then  stopped. 
"Yes,  Sabina.     What  is  it?"  asked  the  girl  quietly. 
"  Miss  Anne.     I  haven't  had  a  chance  of  speaking  to 


298  Drifting  Waters 

you  before.  I  didn't  like  troubling  you  at  all.  I 
told  Mrs.  Egerton,  but  maybe  she  didn't  tell  you. 
It  just  came  over  me  that  you  mightn't  know, 
but  I  didn't  want  to  be  troubling  you,  child. "  She 
looked  away. 

"What  is  it,  Sabina? "  asked  Anne  again.  " I  don't 
in  the  least  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  Aunt 
Nancy  has  told  me  nothing.  Nothing  in  particular 
that  I  can  remember,  at  least. "  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  head  with  a  weary  gesture. 

"'Tis  only  this,  Miss  Anne,"  answered  Sabina  ner- 
vously. "  I  thought  you  might  be  taking  it  for  granted 
like  that  I'm  going  with  you  to  Trent  tomorrow. " 

"And  aren't  you?"  cried  Anne,  startled  now  out  of 
her  apathy. 

"No,  child,  I'm  not."  There  was  a  slight  air  of 
relief  about  Sabina  now_that  she  had  got  her  statement 
out. 

"But,  Sabina " 

"You  won't  really  be  wanting  me,  Miss  Anne," 
Sabina  interrupted.  "There's  nothing  I  can  do  for 
you  now,  or  for  her  that's  gone." 

"But  you  can't  mean  this,  Sabina.  You  are  not 
really  going  to  leave  me  like  this?"  Anne  put  her 
hand  over  Sabina 's  knotted  working  fingers.  Sabina's 
presence  was  part  of  her  life,  one  with  its  daily  routine. 
The  idea  of  her  departure  was  incredible,  against  all 
nature. 

"Ah,  child,  you  don't  really  want  me,"  Sabina  said, 
with  a  twitch  of  her  lip.  "There  would  be  nothing  for 
me  to  do  at  Trent  if  I  went  there,  and  you  know  I  was 
never  one  as  could  sit  down  all  day  with  my  hands 
before  me. " 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel       299 

"But  what  do  you  want  to  do?"  asked  Anne, 
bewildered. 

Was  it  really  Sabina,  the  faithful  and  devoted 
Sabina,  who  was  speaking? 

Words  expressive  of  feeling  or  emotion  never  came 
easily  to  Sabina.  She  sought  for  them  now  with 
difficulty. 

"This  is  the  way  of  it,  Miss  Anne, "  she  said  at  last. 
"Girl  and  woman,  for  five  and  twenty  years  I  served 
you  and  yours  without  a  thought  of  any  other.  I  want 
to  go  home  to  my  own  people  now,  them  that's  left 
of  them." 

"Oh,  Sabina!  Yes,  I — I  understand,"  gasped 
Anne. 

Suddenly  a  revelation  of  the  older  woman's  point 
of  view  pierced  the  cloud  of  her  grief. 

She  had  always  taken  Sabina  and  her  devotion  for 
granted.  She  had  never  credited  her  with  a  life,  an 
entity,  an  interest  apart  from  theirs.  Sabina  was  an 
integral  part  of  the  house  at  Caroline  Place,  an  acces- 
sory of  her  mother's  life,  of  her  own.  She  had  blindly, 
foolishly,  presumptuously  granted  her  an  individ- 
uality only  in  so  far  as  she  touched  their  circle.  And 
lo !  after  all  these  years  of  placid  acceptance  here  was 
a  new  creature,  a  Sabina  with  separate  desires,  wishes, 
longings,  a  Sabina  who  wanted  at  last  to  go  home  to 
her  own  people — "to  them  that's  left  of  them," 

The  pathos  of  it  smote  Anne,  as  well  as  the  realiza- 
tion of  their  own  calm  selfishness.  Tears  rushed  to  her 
hot  tired  eyes. 

"Oh,  Sabina,  dear,  have  you  wanted  to  go  before? 
And  did  we  keep  you? "  she  cried  with  some  of  her  old 
impulse. 


300  Drifting  Waters 

"I'd  have  liked  it  well  enough,"  Sabina  admitted. 
"But  how  could  I  go  and  leave  the  mistress  and 
you?" 

' '  How  can  you  go  and  leave  me  now  ? ' '  thought  Anne, 
feeling  a  new  pang  of  loneliness  at  the  idea.  She 
checked  its  expression,  and  gave  Sabina's  rough  hand 
a  little  squeeze.  "Of  course  you  must  go  home  to 
Ireland  if  you  wish,"  she  said  gently.  "I  would  not 
keep  you  for  the  world,  but — but — I " 

"Maybe  it's  getting  married  you'll  be,"  Sabina 
suggested,  with  a  nervous  cough.  "I  would  be  com- 
ing back  to  you,  maybe,  if  you  had  a  house  of  your 
own.  Miss  Anne.  It's  them  grand  places  and  nothing 
to  do  that  I  can't  abide." 

Anne  felt  a  little  sore  at  the  thought  of  Sabina's 
desertion,  in  spite  of  her  reluctant  comprehension  of 
it. 

"But  I  am  married, "  she  said,  before  she  knew  that 
the  words  had  escaped  her.  She  would  have  with- 
drawn them  if  she  could.  She  had  had  no  intention 
of  revealing  her  secret  here  and  now. 

The  effect  on  Sabina  was  startling.  She  dropped 
her  apron.     Her  face  cleared. 

"Married!  Miss  Anne!  My  lamb!  When  did 
you  marry  him?"  she  cried. 

In  the  midst  of  Anne's  dismay  she  noted  that  Sabina 
asked  no  question  as  to  whom  she  had  married.  She 
took  it  for  granted  that  there  was  only  one  person 
possible.  Anne's  heart  lifted  a  little  at  the  thought. 
There  was  only  one  person  possible,  of  course,  no 
matter  how  things  went  with  them. 

"We  were  married  the  day  he  sailed  for  Australia,  " 
she  answered.     * '  We — wanted  to  belong  to  each  other. 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel        301 

I — was  afraid  to  tell — mother — for  fear — oh,  Sabina,  I 
never  told  her.  I  never  told  her,  and  I  can  never  tell 
her  now!"  Anne  broke  down  and  clung  to  Sabina. 
"I  can  never  tell  her  now.  I  deceived  her,  and  I  can 
never,  never  undo  it."  That  was  the  thought  that 
stung,  the  haunting  knowledge  that  added  a  new 
bitterness  to  death. 

"Never  mind,  my  lamb,  don't  you  fret, "  said  Sabina 
tenderly.  "The  poor  mistress  is  at  peace  now,  which 
she  never  was  this  many  a  long  day,  and  she  under- 
stands things  now,  you  may  be  sure,  that  she  never  did 
before.  Have  your  cry  out,  my  poor  child.  There, 
there!  If  there's  anything  to  forgive  you  may  be 
sure  the  poor  mistress  has  forgiven  it  long  ago. " 

After  a  little  Anne's  sobs  ceased.  She  dried  her 
eyes  and  sat  back  in  her  chair. 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  is  Mr.  Richard  and  when 
you'll  be  going  out  to  him?"  Sabina  asked  looking 
down  at  her. 

"He's  in  Egypt  now,  up-country  somewhere," 
Anne  answered  dull3^  "He  wrote — that  day.  I 
must  read  his  letter  again.  I  have  forgotten  what 
he  said." 

"And  you'll  be  going  out  to  him?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Your  place  is  with  your  husband,  Miss  Anne. 
Isn't  there  blacks  in  Egypt?" 

"Yes.     I  believe  so. " 

"You  can't  leave  him  all  alone  among  them  blacks, 
child." 

"Oh,  there  are  white  people  as  well." 

"Black  or  white,  your  place  is  with  Mr.  Richard," 
Sabina  persisted. 


302  Drifting  Waters 

"  Perhaps  he  doesn't  want  me, "  said  Anne  suddenly, 
whipped  back  to  the  thoughts  which  had  assailed  her 
on  reading  that  last  letter. 

"For  shame,  child !  Why  would  he  marry  you  if  he 
didn't  want  you?  And  if  he  didn't  itself,  it's  your 
place  to  make  him  want  you.  Don't  let  pride  and 
notions  be  coming  between  the  both  of  you  and 
spoiling  your  life  like  it  did  hers  that's  gone.  Ah, 
Miss  Anne,"  she  cried,  melting  at  the  thought,  "and 
you  had  ne'er  a  one  to  wish  you  joy.  Ah,  my  lamb, 
my  lamb !     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ? " 

She  put  her  arms  round  her  and  Anne  cried  again 
upon  that  steadfast  shoulder.  This  time  the  tears 
bore  more  of  healing  in  their  flow,  and  when  they 
checked  a  faint  warmth  of  comfort  seemed  to  steal 
about  the  girl's  aching  heart. 

"  I  must  be  going, "  said  Sabina,  drying  her  own  eyes 
surreptitiously.  "Write  to  Mr.  Richard,  Miss  Anne — 
Mrs.  Assheton,  I  should  say,  ma'am — and  tell  him 
when  you'll  be  going  out  to  him.  And  write  me  word 
of  the  time  and  all  about  it,  for  I'll  never  let  you  go 
out  among  them  blacks  by  yourself. " 

"Oh,  Sabina!  You  would  come  too!"  the  girl 
cried  with  a  sens3  of  relief. 

"  I  will  come  too, "  Sabina  amended.  ' '  Sure  I  could 
never  leave  you  altogether  like  that,  my  lamb.  'Tis 
only — 'tis  the  way  I  must  be  seeing  Ireland  and  my 
own  people  before  I  can  be  doing  anything  else. " 

She  turned  away  with  a  lightened  heart.  At  the 
door  she  paused. 

"Does  Mrs.  Egerton  be  knowing?" 

"No  one  knows  but  Richard  and  myself,  and  now 
you, "  Anne  answered,  feeling  a  little  bewildered  at  the 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel       303 

way  in  which  events  had  marched  since  the  moment 
when  Sabina  had  taken  her  stand  near  her,  pleating 
and  unpleating  her  apron. 

"I  wouldn't  be  too  long  about  telling  her,"  said 
Sabina  significantly. 

"I  must  write  to  Richard  first,"  Anne  answered. 
"Till  I  give  you  leave  you  are  to  say  nothing, 
Sabina. " 

"Very  well  so,"  said  Sabina,  opening  the  door, 
"but  I  wouldn't  be  too  long  about  it  if  I  was  you. " 


IV 


On  rereading  Richard's  letter  Anne  was  struck 
anew  by  what  she  chose  to  consider  its  perfunctori- 
ness.  Mentally  unstrung  as  she  was,  with  every 
nerve  jarred  and  quivering,  her  perspective  was 
distorted,  her  point  of  view  blurred. 

With  maddening  reiteration  Richard's  careless 
phrase  of  long  ago  about  shackles  rang  in  her  mind 
until  it  coloured  every  sentence  in  his  last  happy-go- 
lucky,  confident  letter. 

She  longed  desperately  for  the  missing  one  which 
had  preceded  it.  That  might  have  been  less  light, 
less  casual,  less  taking-for-granted.  It  might  have 
thrown  some  light  upon  this,  might  have  shown  the 
need  of  her  for  which  her  sore  heart  craved. 

Her  thoughts  went  round  and  round  in  the  same 
burning  confusion,  leading  no-whither. 

At  last  she  wrote  to  Richard,  a  bald,  cold,  toneless 
production.  At  the  moment  of  writing  her  heart  was 
closed  towards  him.  She  felt  most  poignantly  an 
unreasonable  sense  of  resentment,  and  the  pride  of 


304  Drifting  Waters 

the  Tudors,  unrealized  while  dormant,  rose  within 
her  in  black  and  bitter  force. 

She  had  consulted  Mr.  Cromwell  about  an  imagin- 
ary case  such  as  her  own,  with  the  result  that  one 
sentence  in  her  letter  bit  into  Richard's  heart  and 
brain  with  the  power  of  some  corroding  acid. 

"I  believe  that  people,  who  separated  immediately 
as  we  did,  can  have  their  marriage  annulled  if  they 
wish  it.  Should  you  care  to  take  steps  in  this  direc- 
tion I  will  do  nothing  to  prevent  you." 

He  read  and  reread  the  astounding  phrase,  con- 
vinced at  first  that  he  must  be  making  some  mistake, 
that  Anne  could  not  have  written  the  words  which 
seemed  to  leap  blackly  at  him  from  the  page  of  her 
letter.  Then,  as  conviction  grew  that  there  was  no 
deception,  that  she  had  verily  put  down  the  unbeliev- 
able in  prestunably  cold  blood,  the  thought  came  to 
him  that  the  shock  of  her  mother's  death  must  have 
affected  her  sweet  sanity.  That  Anne,  his  wife,  his 
Elfin  Princess  could  have  written  this  to  him  and 
meant  it,  was  beyond  belief!  With  the  thought  came 
a  swifter  yearning  for  her  actual  presence,  a  longing 
to  have  her  with  him,  under  his  own  care,  where  no 
mood,  no  movement  could  go  unwatched,  untended, 
where  his  love  and  tenderness  could  restore  her  to  her 
own  dear  self  once  more. 

He  set  about  to  make  Inquiries  and  arrangements 
with  the  strongest  zest  of  impulse,  and  so  It  happened 
that  while  Anne  paced  the  terrace  walk  at  Trent,  with 
Boris  sedately  by  her  side,  a  cablegram  was  put  into 
her  hand  which  read  as  follows: 

' '  Have  booked  passages  in  P  and  O  Letitia  for  you  and 
Sabina  November  29.    Love  and  sympathy.    Richard. " 


The  Angel  of  the  Asphodel       305 

In  the  revulsion  of  feeling  that  followed  this  unex- 
pected answer  to  her  letter  Richard  seemed  to  sweep 
her  off  her  feet  once  more,  relieving  the  unnatural 
tension  of  the  past  few  weeks.  His  instant  assump- 
tion of  care  of  her,  his  completed  arrangements,  his 
inclusion  of  Sabina,  all  brought  the  normal  about  her 
in  a  rush,  and  revived  the  sweet  past  that  she  had 
thought  was  dead.  He  still  wanted  her.  He  still 
needed  her.  She  belonged  to  him,  after  all,  and  he 
was  determined  that  she  should  know  it. 

While  the  wave  of  his  desire  was  upon  her,  and 
before  pride  or  bitterness  could  reassert  itself,  she 
turned  and  went  into  the  house,  cablegram  in  hand, 
to  make  confession  to  her  uncle  and  aunt. 


PART  III 
FRUIT 


307 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SAKKIYEHS 


RICHARD!" 
"Anne!    At  last!" 

As  Anne  stepped  on  to  the  platform  of  the  railway- 
station  in  Cairo,  with  senses  bewildered  by  the  kaleido- 
scopic throng  that  surged  about  her,  her  hands  were 
taken  in  a  strong  clasp  and  she  was  held  closely  for  a 
moment. 

Then  Richard  released  her,  and  putting  her  from 
him,  looked  intently  at  her  for  a  silent  instant.  She 
raised  her  face,  pale  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hat, 
and  met  his  gaze  with  an  effort.  The  electric  lights 
flared  upon  each  tense  face,  bringing  every  line,  every 
contour  in  almost  cruel  prominence.  There  was 
something  desperately  searching  in  their  scrutiny. 
It  was  as  if  soul  probed  for  soul,  seeking  to  penetrate 
the  veil  in  which  the  years  of  growth  and  absence  had 
enwrapped  the  inner  spirit  of  each;  as  if  soul  cried 
to  soul  in  vain  for  an  answering  cry. 

Anne's  heart  throbbed  so  violently  that  speech 
was  impossible. 

Was  this  really  the  moment  for  which  she  had  longed 
and  prayed  and  wrought? 

309 


3IO  Drifting  Waters 

Was  this  lean  brown  man  the  Ricky  whom  she  had 
loved  and  married  in  a  mad  moment  of  impulsive 
passion? 

The  boy  Richard  had  gone.  It  was  a  strange  man 
who  held  her  hands  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes. 
The  outline  of  cheek  and  chin  had  thinned  and  hard- 
ened, the  clear  skin  had  tanned,  the  mouth  had  set 
and  strengthened.  Was  there  nothing  of  the  old 
Richard  left?  Even  his  eyes,  the  whimsical  blue 
eyes  that  used  to  twinkle  and  brighten  and  glow  for 
her,  seemed  now  to  hold  less  of  tenderness  than 
questioning  anxiety  in  their  depths. 

What  was  he  searching  for?  What  did  he  expect 
to  find?     She  did  not  know. 

Suddenly  she  felt  tired  and  lonely,  even  a  little 
frightened.  The  unknown  seemed  to  envelop  her 
with  a  chilly  menace.     She  shivered  slightly. 

In  that  instant  of  scrutiny  Richard  saw  the  face  of 
his  dreams,  cold,  white,  aloof;  its  delicate  outline 
sharpened,  its  great  eyes  shadowed  and  darkened  by 
grief,  but  nothing  else.  Thank  God,  nothing  but 
clearest  sanity  dwelt  in  the  grey-black  depths! 
After  the  shock  of  relief  he  sought  for  more,  a  gleam 
of  love,  of  tenderness,  of  greeting  even. 

He  found  none.  Her  gaze  questioned;  it  gave 
nothing.  He  remembered  his  old  fantastic  simile  of 
the  white  chip.  To  what  unapproachable  fastness 
of  the  spirit  had  his  Elfin  Princess  vanished?  It 
was  all  very  well  for  a  fairy-tale  courtship,  but  this 
was  real  life,  and  she  was  his  wife.  There  should  be 
no  white  chips,  no  chilly  evanishments  in  married 
life. 

With  an  effort  at   recapturing   their  old  relation- 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       311 

ship  he  framed  his  lips  to  whistle  the  little  motif. 
Then  Anne  shivered.  His  lips  grew  dry.  No  sound 
would  come. 

With  a  suppressed  sigh  he  turned  to  greet  Sabina. 

"Well,  Sabina.  You're  a  wonderful  woman," 
he  said  with  forced  lightness.  "It's  a  far  cry  from 
London  to  Cairo,  isn't  it?" 

Sabina  beamed  at  him.  She  at  any  rate,  looked 
comfortingly  unchanged,  and  exhaled  an  atmosphere 
of  normality  which  he  welcomed. 

"It  is  so,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  she  answered.  "It's 
glad  to  be  off  that  ship  I  am,  for  I  never  rightly  got 
what  Miss  Anne  called  my  sea-legs  at  all." 

"Did  you  get  yours,  Anne?"      He  turned  to  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  after  the  first  day  or  so."  Her  tone 
was  impersonal.  The  strangest  sense  of  unreality 
surrounded  her. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said,  rather  low,  bending 
towards  her. 

"A  little,"  she  answered. 

Some  inflection  in  his  voice  brought  a  swift  rush  of 
tears  to  her  eyes,  and  choked  back  further  speech. 
Perhaps  this  strange  man  would  turn  out  to  be  Ricky 
after  all. 

"I  am  afraid  that  we  have  to  go  a  good  bit  farther 
before  you  can  rest,"  he  said  ruefully.  "You  only 
change  trains  here,  and  we  don't  get  to  Medineh  till 
about  8.30.  Perhaps  you  would  rather  stay  the 
night  in  Cairo  and  go  on  tomorrow." 

"Oh,  no,  no;  let  us  get  on,"  she  said  quickly.  "I 
don't  want  to  think  of  another  journey  tomorrow 
I  would  much  rather  get  it  all  over  tonight." 

He  glanced  at  her.     She  was  nervous,  unstrung. 


312  Drifting  Waters 

Was  it  possible  that  she  was  afraid  of  him?  Had  he 
his  wooing  to  do  all  over  again? 

Well,  so  be  it.  He  would  be  very  patient  with  her, 
very  gentle.  She  was  still  sore  and  aching  from  the 
shock  of  her  mother's  death.  He  would  be  infinitely 
careful  not  to  jar. 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  it  within  his  arm. 

"Describe  your  baggage  to  me,  Sabina,  and  my 
man,  Khalil,  shall  see  to  it.  Then  we'll  go  and  get 
our  seats  in  the  Fayiim  train.  Of  course  you  have 
had  tea." 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  Anne  murmured. 

He  was  tall  and  strong,  and  it  gave  her  a  sense  of 
stability  to  feel  his  arm  beneath  her  light  touch,  but 
she  wished  that  he  did  not  seem  so  alien,  so  far 
away. 

She  did  not  for  an  instant  realize  how  her  own  man- 
ner had  chilled  him,  nor  could  she  fathom  the  depth 
of  the  wound  that  her  suggestion  of  annulment  had 
dealt  him. 

Richard's  fastidious  pride  shrank  from  forcing  him- 
self upon  an  unwilling  woman,  no  matter  how  closely 
the  law  might  bind  her  to  him.  Anne  would  have 
to  come  much  closer  to  him  before  she  realized  that. 

As  the  train  rushed  through  the  blue  Egyptian 
night  she  lay  back  in  her  corner  with  closed  eyes, 
thinking,  thinking. 

Richard,  in  the  intervals  of  desultory  talk  with 
Sabina,  watched  her  with  a  somewhat  wistful  wonder. 

The  undercurrent  of  the  whirl  of  their  thoughts  was 
the  same,  sweeping  through  the  hidden  consciousness 
of  each. 

"Tonight    is,    to    all    intents   and    purposes,   our 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       313 

wedding  night,  yet  did  we  ever  feel  so  far  apart  as 
we  do  now?" 

At  last  Anne  could  bear  her  thoughts  no  longer. 
She  sat  up,  shaking  off  her  apathy  with  an  effort,  and 
leaned  forward. 

"Is  this  really  the  desert  through  which  we  are 
rushing  now?"  she  asked,  looking  out  at  the  pale 
slopes  and  ridges  of  sand  that  stretched  away  on 
either  side  into  the  night. 

"Yes,"  Richard  answered,  suppressing  a  smile. 
"But  you  needn't  take  a  polite  interest  in  it  tonight 
Anne,  if  you'd  rather  rest." 

"But  I  wouldn't,"  she  said,  a  little  impatiently. 
"It's  a  new  experience.  One  can  rest  after,  but  one 
should  take  advantage  first  of  anything  novel  that 
offers." 

"You  might  have  had  more  novelty  than  you  de- 
sired if  you  had  come  last  week  instead  of  this.  The 
train  was  held  up  by  brigands." 

"Brigands?"  Anne  echoed,  looking  at  him,  and 
discovering  that  the  corner  of  his  mouth  had  not  lost 
its  old  humorous  tilt. 

"Bedouin  robbers,"  he  answered  casually.  "I 
believe  it  was  most  exciting.  A  few  shots  were  fired 
and  one  of  the  stokers  was  winged,  poor  chap,  but 
the  brigands  were  captured  and  are  now  safely  in  jail 
in  Cairo." 

"Does  this  often  happen?"  Anne  asked. 

"Lord  love  us  and  save  us,"  cried  Sabina.  "What 
sort  of  a  country  have  you  brought  us  to  at  all,  Mr. 
Richard!" 

"It's  a  splendid  country,"  he  rejoined.  "Scrip- 
tural  enough   to   please  your   heart,   Sabina.     This 


314  Drifting  Waters 

stretch  of  desert,  which  separates  the  Fay6in  from  the 
rest  of  Egypt,  has  always  been  haunted  by  brigands, 
I  believe,  but  the  oasis  itself  is  a  veritable  Land  of 
Promise ;  '  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey' ;  with 
peaches,  oranges,  olives,  cactus-fruit,  pomegranates, 
and  pears  in  abundance;  with  figs  and  fowl  that  are 
famous  throughout  all  Egypt." 

"Mercy  on  us,  it  sounds  like  a  fairy-tale!"  ejacu- 
lated Sabina. 

"Does  the  prospect  please  you,  Anne?"  Richard 
asked  softly.  "Is  it  too  dark  for  you  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Land  of  Promise?" 

Anne  looked  quickly  at  him.  The  long  pale 
stretches  of  sand  still  glimmered  ghostly  through  the 
dusk.     It  was  to  the  eyes  of  her  spirit  he  appealed. 

"No,"  she  answered  very  low.  "I — I  don't  think 
so.     It  sounds — very  beautiful,  Richard." 

"It  is,"  he  answered,  composedly,  settling  himself 
in  his  comer.  "It  is  an  alluring  land,  in  spite,  or 
perhaps  because  of  its  many  contrasts  and  contradic- 
tions. I  think  you'll  like  it,  Anne.  I  hope  so,  any 
way." 

For  a  moment  Anne  wondered  if  she  had  been 
wrong  in  reading  a  hidden  meaning  into  his  words,  so 
ordinary  and  casual  were  tone  and  bearing.  She 
determined  to  check  her  imagination;  to  meet  him 
on  his  own  ground ;  to  probe  no  more  below  the  surface. 

"I'm  afraid  that  I'm  shockingly  ignorant,"  she 
began.  "But  I  don't  know  the  least  thing  about  the 
place  we're  going  to.  Of  course  I've  read  about 
Egypt,  but  I  know  nothing  about  the  Fayftm,  beyond 
the  fact  that  it's  a  big  oasis." 

"Shall  I  be  your  guide-book?" 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       315 

"Please." 

"I'll  give  it  to  you  in  tabloid  form  tonight,"  said 
Richard.  "You  can  study  the  geography  of  the 
place  in  its  wider  aspects  later  on  at  your  leisure. 
The  Fayilm  is  the  first  of  the  oases  of  the  valley  on 
the  Nile.  It  was,  according  to  early  Arab  tradition, 
originally  a  marsh,  El-Hfin,  and  served  as  a  sort  of 
waste  basin  for  Upper  Egypt  at  flood-time,  when  the 
waters  flowed  in  and  out  of  it  unrestrained.  Who 
do  you  think  reclaimed  it  from  its  marshy  state?" 

"I  haven't  an  idea." 

"Guess,  Sabina,"  Richard  commanded.  "Think 
of  a  Biblical  character  who  lived  in  Egypt." 

"Oh,  Ricky,  that's  not  fair!  You  gave  me  no  hint 
like  that.  Joseph  of  course,"  cried  Anne,  her  interest 
caught. 

Richard  looked  at  her  and  .smiled.  The  quick 
response,  the  spontaneous  use  of  his  familiar  name 
had  been  more  even  than  he  had  angled  for  in  his 
cast  of  words. 

"Go  up  one,  Anne,"  he  said  lightly.  "Joseph  it 
was.  In  his  old  age  Pharaoh's  courtiers  grew  jealous 
of  his  influence  with  the  king  and  suggested  that  his 
powers  were  failing,  and  that  his  knowledge  had  dimin- 
ished. In  a  word,  that  he  was  unfit  for  his  high  place. 
'Set  him  a  task  for  a  test, '  commanded  Pharaoh,  and 
they  set  him  to  drain  and  reclaim  El-Hun,  as  an 
estate  for  Pharaoh's  daughter.  I'll  spare  you  the 
technical  details,  but  Joseph  was  man  enough  for  the 
task,  and  converted  the  marsh  into  such  fertile  lands 
that  Pharaoh  and  his  courtiers  were  astonished. 
'How  long  did  it  take  you  to  do  this?'  asked  Pharaoh. 
'Seventy  days,'  replied  Joseph.     'Methinks  it  could 


3i6  Drifting  Waters 

not  have  been  done  in  a  thousand,'  cried  Pharaoh. 
After  which  the  name  was  changed  from  El-Hiin,  'the 
marsh,'  to  El-Fay toi,  'the  land  of  a  thousand  days,' 
'elf  being  Arabic  for  a  thousand  and  'yom'  days. 
To  this  day  the  great  canal  Bahr  Yilsuf  (the  canal  of 
Joseph)  irrigates  the  whole  province  and  rushes 
through  El-Medineh — your  future  home,  Anne." 

"Rushing  water,  I  like  that,"  said  Anne.  "I 
thought  I  should  miss  the  river  in  this  waterless 
country." 

"Medineh  is  not  waterless,"  Richard  said  quickly. 
"The  sound  of  water  is  everywhere.  The  town  is 
intersected  with  canals.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was 
called  the  Venice  of  Egypt?  It  is  unlike  any  other 
part  of  Egypt  that  I've  seen." 

"Oh,"  said  Anne  softly.  Then  she  turned  away 
and  looked  into  the  night. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Richard,  that 
it  was  Bible  Joseph  that  done  all  that?"  asked  Sabina^ 
leaning  forward. 

"So  the  legend  goes,  Sabina.  The  canal  is  called 
after  him  anyhow." 

"Well,  do  you  tell  me  that,  now?  Then  there's 
some  Christianity  about  the  place,  after  all." 

"You  often  find  a  good  deal  of  Christianity  in  very 
heathen  places,  Sabina,"  returned  Richard,  watching 
the  white  face  against  the  dark  window-pane.  "In 
the  old  pagan  days  the  town  was  dedicated  to  the 
Crocodile  God,  Sobek,  but  that  was  since  Joseph's  day, 
I  expect." 

"I  don't  hold  with  them  gods  and  goddesses," 
announced  Sabina.  "No  better  than  they  should 
be,  most  of  them  wasn't." 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       317 

"Who  is?"  asked  Richard. 

"Who  is  what?"  said  Anne,  turning. 

"Better  than  they  should  be,"  he  answered.  "With- 
out wishing  to  preach  I'm  afraid  none  of  us  are  as  good 
as  we  should  be,  let  alone  better.  And  here  we  are 
at  Medineh." 

The  train  ran  into  a  twinkle  of  light,  a  blur  of 
houses,  a  palisaded  platform,  and  a  crowd  of  waiting 
Arabs. 

In  less  time  than  she  could  have  imagined  Anne 
had  left  the  train  and  was  ensconced  in  a  carriage 
drawn  by  two  horses,  with  Richard  by  her  side  and 
Sabina  on  the  box-seat. 

"This  is  Moussa  Bey's  carriage,"  said  Richard. 
"He  begged  to  be  allowed  to  send  it  to  meet  you, 
though  our  house  is  only  about  five  minutes'  walk 
from  the  station." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  him,"  murmured  Anne. 

Overhead  large  brilliant  stars  swam  in  a  sky  of 
deepest  blue,  against  which  black  silhouettes  of  flat- 
topped  houses  and  feathery  palm-clusters  were  darkly 
visible.  Here  and  there  a  blur  of  orange  light  flecked 
the  night. 

Richard  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Owr  house,"  he  said  very  softly.  "Do  you  like 
the  sound  of  it,  Anne?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  quickly.  "But 
you  mustn't — you  mustn't  hurry  me,  Richard." 

He  drew  away  a  little,  chilled. 

"  I  will  never  hurry  you,  dear,"  he  said.  Then  with 
an  effort — for  to  lay  aside  his  deep  inner  reticence 
was  painfully  difficult  for  him  at  all  times — he  said 
hesitatingly: 


3i8  Drifting  Waters 

"About  marriage,  Anne " 


"Yes?"  said  Anne  breathlessly. 

"My  idea  of  it  is  one  with  the  man  who  wrote, 
'True  marriage  lieth  not  in  form  nor  ceremony,  in 
charms  recited  by  priests  nor  bonds  framed  by  law- 
yers, but,  like  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  it  is  within 
you.'  Anne,  dear,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "until — we 
feel  like  that  you  are  as  free  as  air.  We — shall  be 
only  friends." 

Silence  choked  Anne.  His  delicacy  had  solved 
many  problems,  had  laid  to  rest  many  tormenting 
thoughts,  and  yet — he  did  not  feel,  "like  that"  towards 
her.  He  had  said  "until  we — ."  He  did  not  really 
love  her,  after  all.  The  old  unreasonable  resentment 
rose  hotly  within  her.  She  was  tired,  over-wrought, 
unstrung,  yet  through  the  maze  of  whirling  sensations 
pierced  one  vital  flash  of  revelation,  the  knowledge 
that  her  love  for  Richard  lay  beneath  it  all,  living, 
indestructible,  above  and  beyond  all  bitterness  of 
disillusionment — a  veritable  spark  of  the  eternal  fire, 
to  last  as  long  as  life — and  beyond.  While  he — did 
not  feel  "like  that." 


n 


"This  is  your  bedroom,  Anne,"  said  Richard, 
opening  a  door  in  the  bare-looking  landing.  "I  have 
given  Sabina  the  little  room  off  it." 

"Where  are  you?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"My  room  is  opposite  yours.  You  have  only  to 
call  and  I  shall  hear,  though  I  don't  think  that  there 
is  anything  to  frighten  you  in  Medineh." 

"No  insects  or  reptiles?" 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       319 

"  Nothingworse  than  mosquitoes,"  he  said.  "They'll 
find  you  very  sweet,  Anne,  being  so  fresh  from  home. 
I  have  some  stuff  which  may  keep  them  off  your 
hands." 

Anne  looked  at  her  slim  white  fingers. 

"Do  they  bite  very  badly,"  she  asked  apprehen- 
sively. 

/'Very,"  he  smiled  at  her.  "You  come  out  in 
lumps,  and  probably  your  wrists  will  disappear." 

"Richard!     How  horrid!" 

She  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  round 
her.  It  seemed  very  big  and  very  bare.  The  walls 
and  woodwork  were  white;  the  rather  rough  furni- 
ture dark  green.  On  the  bare  floor  were  native  rugs, 
striped  green,  terra-cotta,  and  white,  and  the  very  high 
windows  had  straight  hangings  of  the  same  colouring. 

Richard  watched  her  intently. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  all  very  rough  and  ready,"  he  said, 
a  note  of  appeal  unconsciously  creeping  into  his  voice. 
"There  are  not  many  resources  here,  and  I  did  the 
best  I  could  in  the  time  at  my  disposal.  I  tried  to 
get  as  much  of  the  fairies'  colour  for  you  as  I  could." 
He  ended  with  an  abrupt  laugh,  as  if  his  folly  were 
something  to  be  ashamed  of. 

Anne  gave  him  one  swift  glance. 

"It  was — very  kind  of  you.  It  is  all — charming," 
she  said  hesitatingly. 

She  wanted  to  be  warmer,  but  there  was  a  chilly 
band  about  her  heart,  and  she  felt  very  tired. 

Richard  came  closer.  Sabina  had  gone  into  the 
dressing-room.  They  could  hear  her  slow  movements. 
He  took  her  hands,  looking  at  her. 

"There  must  be  no  talk  of  kindness  between  you 


320  Drifting  Waters 

and  me,  my  wife,"  he  said,  very  slowly,  drawing  her 
to  him.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  then  "I  haven't 
said  yet,  my  dearest,  how  sorry  I  am." 

She  stiffened  slightly,  holding  herself  aloof. 

"Please  don't,  Richard,"  she  said  faintly.  "I 
can't  bear  it.  You  didn't  care  for  her.  She  didn't 
like  you.  I  deceived  her  wilfully.  I  can  never  undo 
it,  never  forget  it,  never  forgive  myself."  She  turned 
her  head  away. 

He  dropped  the  hands  he  held  and  moved  from  her. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say  after  that.  He 
did  not  want  to  force  himself  or  his  sympathy  on 
her.     At  the  door  he  paused. 

"If  you  would  rather  not  come  down,  Anne,  I  will 
send  you  up  some  supper  here,"  he  said,  tonelessly. 

Her  heart  smote  her  for  her  ungracious  lack  of 
response.     She  turned  impulsively. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  will  go  down." 

She  stopped,  then  made  a  movement  towards  him. 
"Richard,  I — don't  mean  to  be  ungrateful.  You 
are  very  good.  I'm — I'm  a  little  tired.  I'll  be  able 
to  appreciate — everything  better  tomorrow." 

Richard  turned  eagerly  at  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
and  listened  to  the  faltering  sentences.  Each  fell  on 
the  warmth  of  his  expectancy  like  so  many  drops  of 
icy  water.  Was  the  old  impulse  of  her  love  really 
dead?  Was  this  the  Anne  of  whom  he  had  dreamed 
all  these  weary  months,  this  cold  white  woman  whose 
lightest  touch  was  yet  strong  enough  to  keep  him  at 
bay? 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  when  she  had  finished. 

"  Gratitude  is  a  much  over-rated  virtue,  and  a  damn 
chilly  one,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the  door.     "I 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       321 

don't  think  I  want  any,  thank  you,  Anne.  Come 
down  when  you're  ready.     You  must  be  hungry." 

He  closed  the  door.  There  was  something  final 
to  Anne  in  sound  and  action.  Her  throat  swelled. 
He  had  rejected  her  little  tentative  overture,  as  she 
had  quelled  his  advance.  Again  she  felt  that  she 
did  not  know  this  man  whom  she  had  married  so 
lightly.  Married !  And  marriage  was  for  life.  Mar- 
riage was  irrevocable.  Once  she  had  rejoiced  in  the 
thought.  Was  it  her  mother  or — hatefid  suggestion — 
her  father  in  her  who  rebelled  at  it  now? 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  removing  them 
hastily  as  Sabina  entered. 

"Is  it  the  way  you've  not  taken  the  hat  off  of  you 
yet? "  asked  Sabina  sharply.  "Well,  now,  Miss  Anne, 
you'd  better  hurry,  for  as  well  as  I  could  make  out 
from  that  blacky  that  brought  up  the  boxes  your 
supper  is  ready." 

"  Is  it? "  said  Anne,  listlessly,  taking  out  her  hatpins. 

Sabina  moved  briskly  towards  the  washstand  and 
poured  hot  water  from  a  small  brass  jug,  sniffing 
contemptuously  at  the  amount. 

"He  broke  his  heart,  I  declare,  with  the  quantity 
he  gave  you,"  she  said.  "  'Tis  the  queer  country 
entirely  it  is,  with  only  black  men  to  wait  on  you. 
Come  on  now.  Miss  Anne,  ma'am,  and  wash  your  face 
and  hands,  and  don't  be  keeping  the  master  waiting." 

The  master!  The  word  echoed  strangely  in  Anne's 
ears.  Sabina  had  given  him  his  place  and  title  with 
the  ready  instinct  of  primitive  woman.  The  man — 
the  master — and  she,  Anne,  hitherto  an  important 
entity,  was  bidden  not  to  keep  him  waiting  I 

Anne's  sense  of  htunour,  so  long  and  so  sadly  in 


322  Drifting  Waters 

abeyance,  rose  at  the  realization.  She  rearranged  her 
hair,  and  washed  her  face  and  hands  obediently, 
listening  with  a  faint  smile  to  Sabina's  flow  of  words 
as  she  opened  her  boxes  and  began  to  unpack. 

"  'Tis  well  himself  is  looking,  in  spite  of  all,"  she 
continued.  "Glory  be  to  God  that  there's  a  man  in 
the  house  again !  'Tis  a  queer  one  entirely  that  do  be 
without  one!  What  sort  of  a  place  at  all  is  this  we've 
come  to?  That  blacky,  Kalee,  or  whatever  his  name 
is,  can  talk  a  lot  of  English,  praise  be!  He  was  in 
Australia  when  the  master  was  there,  with  some  Egyp- 
tian gentleman  or  other,  and  he  says  'twas  the  way 
Mr.  Richard  saved  his  life.  Did  you  know  that, 
ma'am?     The  Haktm,  he  calls  him." 

Anne  smiled  at  Sabina's  glib  "ma'am." 

It  was  as  if  the  visible  presence  of  house  and 
husband  brought  the  matronly  title  more  easily  to 
her  lips. 

"Yes,  Sabina.     He  told  me  that  in  a  letter." 

"He's  getting  a  great  practice  entirely  here,  Kalee 
says.     He  can  cure  all  diseases,  the  people  say." 

"When  had  you  this  long  conversation  with  KhalJl, 
Sabina?" 

"After  they  brought  up  the  boxes,  ma'am.  When 
you  and  Mr.  Richard  was  talking  in  here.  He  was 
showing  me  the  way  to  tuck  in  them  curtains  round 
the  beds  the  way  the  moskitties  wouldn't  be  getting  in 
and  biting  you.  Terrible  bites  they  do  be  giving  you, 
he  says.  'Tis  the  way  I'll  be  thinking  myself  in  a 
meat-safe  when  I'm  getting  inside  them  things !  'Tis 
a  wild  country,  to  be  sure!" 

Anne  smiled  as  she  looked  at  the  long  cream  cur- 
tains which  enveloped  her  bed.     Everything  had  the 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       323 

strangeness  of  novelty.  Even  the  windows  opened 
inwards  in  two  long  leaves  instead  of  going  up  and 
down  like  those  at  Trent  and  at  Caroline  Place.  Out- 
side they  were  shuttered  with  heavy  green  Venetian 
shutters. 

Anne  pushed  both  open,  and  looked  out  into  the 
unfamiliar  blue  darkness  of  the  night.  The  stars  were 
very  large  and  very  near.  A  slip  of  crescent  moon 
shone  brilliantly.  The  twinkling  lights  of  the  town 
pierced  the  darkness  with  orange  flecks.  The  air  was 
warm  and  sweet  and  rustled  the  foliage  of  young  date 
palms  in  the  garden  beneath. 

Anne  leaned  out  for  a  moment's  breathing  space 
before  she  went  downstairs.  A  curious  sound  met 
her  ears — a  purring,  droning,  humming,  whining 
sound,  which  sometimes  rose  shrilly  and  then  fell  to 
a  murmur  again.  It  was  a  sound  unlike  any  she  had 
ever  heard  before,  and  yet  not  altogether  unfamiliar. 
There  was  something  primitive  about  it,  something 
crude  yet  not  inharmonious,  something  instinct  with 
a  fascination  all  its  own. 

She  caught  her  breath  and  listened  eagerly.  Through 
the  humming  and  whining  sounded  a  ripple,  the  mur- 
mur of  running  water:  an  Eastern  echo  of  the  great 
rushing  river  at  home  to  whose  sound  all  the  days  of 
her  young  life  had  risen  and  set. 

Running  water ;  water  singing  mysteriously.  Water 
which  gave  life  to  this  thirsty  land  and  made  the 
desert  blossom  as  the  rose. 

Strengthened  and  refreshed  by  the  sound  she  rose 
and  went  downstairs  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  the 
new  life  which  awaited  her,  resolved  to  try  to  keep 
them  from  getting  tangled. 


324  Drifting  Waters 

A  red-shaded  lamp  hung  over  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room,  on  which  supper  was  laid.  Khalil  had  deco- 
rated the  white  cloth  with  an  intricate  pattern  of  green 
leaves  and  little  purple  starlike  flowers.  The  light 
was  concentrated  on  the  table.  The  rest  of  the  big 
room  seemed  dim  and  cavernous.  Richard's  face  was 
in  shadow  as  he  stood  awaiting  her.  He  moved 
quickly  forward  at  the  sound  of  her  step,  and  offering 
his  arm  led  her  to  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said  with  something 
like  his  old  twinkle. 

"For  what?"  she  looked  up  quickly. 

"For  my  language  just  now.  My  only  excuse,  if 
it  is  an  excuse,  is  that  I  have  been  leading  rather  a 
rough  life  lately.  You'll  have  to  teach  me  the  refine- 
ments again." 

Anne's  heart  lightened  suddenly,  for  no  explicable 
reason. 

"  I  don't  think,  I  will,"  she  answered.  "  I — I  think 
I  liked  you  to  say  'damn, '  Ricky." 

His  eyes  sought  her  face  and  left  it  again.  He 
answered  in  the  same  vein. 

"I  mustn't  say  it  too  often  lest  it  should  lose  its 
charm.     Even  a  damn  palls  with  repetition!" 

Anne  smiled. 

Richard  thought  of  his  youthful  dictum  about 
faces,  uttered  so  carelessly  to  Nancy  Egerton  years 
before : 

"  Young  girls'  faces  are  uninteresting,  they  are  so 
smooth  and  round.  I  like  faces  that  have  things  written 
in  them." 

"The  moving  finger  "  had  certainly  written  in  Anne's 
face  since  last  his  eyes  had  lit  upon  it.     Sorrow  was 


IT  WAS   A    FACE    OF    RARE    CHARM,    OF   SUBTLE    DISTINCTION" 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs      325 

there,  and  knowledge.  Were  there  sad  lines  of  disil- 
lusionment as  well  ?  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  now, 
holding  all  the  secret  heritage  of  womanhood — love, 
grief,  joy. 

It  was  a  face  of  rare  charm,  of  subtle  distinction; 
not  a  face,  the  face,  he  thought  suddenly — the  one 
face  in  the  world. 

She  looked  like  a  beautiful  etching,  a  study  in  black 
and  white,  night  and  moonlight. 

His  busy  mind  sought  and  found  simile  after  simile 
for  her,  while  Anne  thought  how  easily  he  had  accepted 
the  swift  readjustment  of  their  relations. 

Accepted?  Nay,  rather  it  was  he  who  had  imposed 
them  upon  her;  to  her  relief,  it  must  be  confessed; 
but  also  deep,  deep  down  to  an  unacknowledged  sense 
of  chagrin. 

"What  is  that  purring,  humming  noise  I  heard  from 
my  window  upstairs?" 

Her  voice  broke  across  his  musings. 

His  eyes  met  hers.  She  could  not  read  the  look  in 
them.     Her  vision  was  holden. 

"Oh,  that  must  be  the  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs,"  he 
answered  lightly. 

"The  sakkiyehs?"  She  raised  delicate  questioning 
brows. 

"Sakkiyehs  are  water-wheels.  They  are  used  for 
purposes  of  irrigation  all  over  Egypt,"  he  explained. 
"These  in  the  Fayiim  are  different  from  all  others. 
They  are  great  black  wooden  wheels,  with  little  square 
sluices  in  them  and  are  turned  by  the  water  itself. 
The  others  are  horizontal  wooden  wheels,  and  are 
turned  by  a  fawn-coloured  bullock.  They  bring  up 
the  water  from  wells  beneath  by  means  of  a  long  chain 


326  Drifting  Waters 

of  red  earthenware  pots  that  shine  sometimes  like 
wet  cornelians  in  the  sun.     Did  you  like  the  sound?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  on  a  long-drawn  breath. 

He  nodded.  "I  thought  you  would.  I  love  it. 
I  told  you  that  running  water  would  haunt  you  still, 
Anne.  You  can  scarcely  get  away  from  it  here.  It 
is  an  echo  of  the  Song  of  Fertility — the  Song  of  the 
Nile — but  it  has  a  character  all  its  own.  It  chimes 
with  your  mood  in  the  oddest  way.  All  day  yester- 
day it  was  joyous,  triumphant." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  without  thinking. 

"Because  you  were  coming." 

Anne's  face  flamed  suddenly.  "It  had  a  plaintive, 
rather  complaining  sound  tonight,"  she  said,  with  a 
faint  hint  of  defiance. 

"That's  because  you  are  tired,"  he  answered  after 
an  instant's  pause. 

"You  mustn't  identify  us,"  she  returned  quickly. 
"I  am  tired  of  being  part  of  other  things.  I  want  to 
be  myself,  not  bits  and  scraps  of  things  animate  or 
inanimate." 

He  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  the  Tudors,  but 
knew  also  that  this  was  not  the  moment  in  which  to 
show  comprehension  of  the  thought.  It  was  so  easy 
to  jar  tonight. 

"The  best  way  to  preserve  your  identity  for  the 
moment  is  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  with  the  same  deter- 
mined lightness.  "You'll  become  disintegrated  from 
sheer  fatigue  if  you  stay  up  any  longer.  Khalil  will 
bring  you  up  your  tea  at  any  hour  you  like  in  the 
morning." 

"Khain?" 

Richard  laughed.     "I  forgot  that  you're  not  used 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       327 

to  being  waited  upon  by  men-servants.  Well,  he  can 
hand  it  to  Sabina  and  she  can  take  it  in  to  you.  Don't 
get  up  until  you  feel  inclined." 

She  rose  and  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  table. 

"That  sounds  very  lazy.     What  about  you?" 

"Oh,  I'll  have  my  breakfast  early  tomorrow.  I 
have  to  go  out  to  Lake  Karian  to  see  a  patient,  and 
shall  not  be  back  until  the  afternoon." 

He  stood  by  the  door,  holding  it  open  for  her.  She 
lingered.  It  was  as  if  she  did  not  know  how  to  frame 
her  good-night. 

"How  do  you  go?     Is  it  far?" 

"A  ride  of  an  hour  or  so.  I  go  on  Zobeida,  my 
racing  camel." 

"A  camel?" 

"Yes.  Moussa  Bey  gave  her  to  me.  She's  a 
beauty  and  goes  Hke  the  wind.  I'm  teaching  her  to 
jimip.  She  takes  to  it  like  a  bird.  I'll  let  you  ride 
on  her  some  day  if  you  like." 

"It  sounds  entrancing,"  said  Anne. 

Life  in  this  strange  country  was  certainly  opening 
up  new  possibilities.  Camel-riding,  Venice  in  Egypt 
— what  next? 

Richard  still  waited  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 
She  must  make  the  next  move. 

"I  really  must  dream  on  that,"  she  said,  half  shyly. 
"Good-night,  Ricky." 

She  lifted  a  white  tentative  cheek. 

He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  action,  but  took  her 
hand  in  his  and  kissed  it  very  tenderly. 

"Good-night,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  "The 
Arabs  have  a  saying  'May  your  night  be  white  as 
milk. '     A  milk-white  night  to  you,  Anne." 


328  Drifting  Waters 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  very  low  and  passed  him 
with  averted  head. 

Richard  went  out  into  the  night  and  taking  out  his 
pipe  lit  it  and  puffed  at  it  almost  savagely.  His  face 
was  pale  under  its  tan. 


ui 


The  morning  hours  had  all  the  pleasant  length  of 
time  passed  in  doing  unfamiliar  acts  among  novel 
surroundings. 

Aided  by  Khalil,  a  house-boy  named  Hassan,  and 
Sabina,  Anne  unpacked  and  arranged  various  treas- 
ures which  she  had  brought  with  her  from  England. 
By  the  time  that  four  o'clock  came  the  big  drawing- 
room,  though  still  bare  according  to  eyes  used  to 
smaller  and  more  furnished  rooms,  had  a  personality, 
a  habitable  look. 

The  wicker  chairs  had  mauve  and  green  cushions 
in  them;  there  were  one  or  two  pictures  on  the  walls, 
a  bit  of  green  and  silver  brocade  thrown  over  a  table, 
books  in  the  white  book-shelves,  and  the  wonderful 
pale  pink  long-stemmed  roses  of  Egypt  in  bowls  and 
vases  everywhere. 

Muslin  curtains  patterned  with  green  baskets  of 
violets  fluttered  in  the  long  windows  that  opened  on 
to  the  sun-baked  garden. 

It  was  a  garden  such  as  Anne  had  never  seen  before. 
There  were  no  grassy  slopes.  The  paths  were  of  mud, 
beaten  hard  by  the  passing  of  feet.  Each  bush  stood 
in  its  own  dry  well  of  earth,  into  which  at  morning 
and  evening  the  gardener  poured  water  out  of  a  skin 
bag  slung  across  his  shoulder. 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       329 

The  house  stood  back  a  little  from  the  road.  Along 
the  high  mud  wall  crouched  a  row  of  prickly-pears, 
dull  green  grotesques  with  fleshy  leaves.  Here  and 
there  a  tall  palm  raised  its  solitary  crest  above  the 
young  date-  and  fan-palms  which  clustered  throughout 
the  garden.  Here  also  was  the  brighter  verdure  of  the 
long  wind-torn  leaves  of  the  bananas.  Tall  bushes  of 
pale  pink  roses  stood  each  in  its  own  little  well,  and 
through  the  green  glowed  clumps  of  poinsettias, 
flaming  as  though  they  were  lapped  in  fire. 

Shy  grey  bulbuls,  piping  their  sweet  plaintive 
note,  flitted  from  stem  to  stem,  while  green  bee-eat- 
ers, yellow- throated  and 'with  slim  black  tail  feathers, 
darted  by  like  gleams  from  an  emerald  in  the  sunshine. 

Anne  stood  by  the  window,  watching  it  all  entranced. 
Unknown  to  herself  she  made  a  striking  note  in  the 
harmony  of  colour  in  her  thin  black  gown. 

A  gardener,  with  blue  robe  girt  about  his  brown 
legs,  was  working  in  the  garden,  stooping,  rising,  bend- 
ing again.  There  was  a  soft  hum  of  voices  from  the 
back  of  the  house,  an  occasional  melancholy  cry  from 
the  road  without,  the  thin  scream  of  a  kite  wheeling 
in  the  vivid  blue  above.  Through  it  all,  a  background 
to  the  varied  mosaic  of  sound,  rose  and  fell  the  Song 
of  the  Sakkiyehs,  humming,  purring,  droning. 

There  was  something  placid,  contented  about  it  to- 
day, Anne  thought;  something  that  was  one  with  the 
warmth  and  the  colour  and  the  strength  of  the 
sun. 

The  strangeness  lulled  her  like  a  charm.  Every- 
thing that  had  been  seemed  remote,  unreal.  Any- 
thing might  happen  in  this  land  of  enchantment. 
She  felt  as  if  wafted  on  a  dream,  content  to  drift  to 


330  Drifting  Waters 

that  murmurous  sound.  Suddenly  from  outside 
came  a  stir,  an  excitement.  A  gate  was  thrown  open; 
there  was  an  unfamiliar  soft  padding  as  of  feet, 
followed  by  a  patter. 

She  bent  forward. 

Up  the  central  path  came  a  figure  in  white  upon 
a  cream-coloured  camel,  trapped  and  housed  with 
crimson.  A  necklace  of  shells  hung  round  the  crea- 
tiire's  neck ;  its  nose  was  tufted  with  feathers  and  balls 
of  crimson  wool.  It  advanced  at  a  loping  gait  of 
curious  swiftness.  The  rider  waved  his  helmet,  and 
Anne  saw  that  it  was  Richard. 

She  went  forward  to  meet  him.  A  boy  with  a  round 
white  cap  and  blue  galabiyeh  had  darted  round  the 
comer  of  the  house,  and  caught  the  camel's  bridle, 
urging  it  with  strange  duckings  and  gurglings  and 
words  of  command.  With  obvious  reluctance  and 
awkward  jerkings  the  camel  proceeded  to  lie  down. 

Richard  jumped  off  and  gave  some  orders,  then 
crossed  quickly  towards  Anne. 

She  was  smiling  when  he  got  to  her. 

"It  is  more  like  a  fairy- tale  than  anything  I  ever 
imagined,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

He  took  off  his  sun-helmet  as  he  greeted  her. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  he  said  in  the  same  breath- 
less way.  "The  part  which  seems  most  like  a  fairy- 
tale to  me  is  to  see  you  here." 

"Is  it?"  she  asked,  half  shyly,  shrinking  from  what 
she  really  longed  to  hear.  "It  is  all  wonderful.  Is 
this  your  famous  racing  camel?" 

"Yes.  Isn't  she  a  beauty,  with  her  long  white 
neck  and  big  black  eyes?  Something  of  your  own 
type,"  he  went  on  mischievously. 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       331 

"A  camel!  Thank  you!"  she  cried  with  mock 
indignation. 

"There  is  as  much  difference  in  camels  as  in  horses," 
he  returned.  "Zobeida  is  a  pure-bred  racer.  She 
can  go  like  the  wind  and  she  is  beginning  to  jump 
beautifully.     Eh,  Zobeida?" 

He  turned  to  the  animal,  who  was  rising  again  with 
jerks  and  grunts,  her  long  neck  swaying  towards  them. 
Anne  put  out  her  hand.     He  caught  it  roughly  back, 

"Don't  do  that.  She  doesn't  know  you.  She 
might  bite  you,  and  a  camel's  bite  is  a  grind  as  well 
as  a  bite.     Horrible." 

Anne  drew  back. 

"Did  I  frighten  you,  dear?  I  am  sorry,"  he  said 
gently.  "But  the  thought  of  your  fingers — "  he 
broke  off  abruptly.  "What  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself  all  day?  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  been 
obliged  to  leave  you  alone  on  your  first  morning." 

"You  mustn't  let  me  interfere  with  you  in  any 
way,"  she  said  quickly.  "The  time  passed  in  a  won- 
derful fashion.  Come  and  see  what  we've  been  doing.'* 
She  made  a  gesture  of  invitation  towards  the  open 
window.  He  followed  and  looked  round  with 
amazement. 

"By  Jove,  you  have  tranformed  the  place,"  he 
said.     "More  magic.     How  did  you  do  it,  Anne?" 

"Sabina  and  Khalil  and  I  worked  very  hard.  I 
brought  out  yards  of  the  muslin  from  Liberty's,  and 
Sabina  ran  up  the  curtains.  Khalil  brought  me  the 
roses  from  Moussa  Bey.  How  kind  he  is,  Richard! 
You  like  it?" 

"Like  it!"  he  echoed.  "What  a  cold,  pale  word! 
It's  like  stepping  into  a  green  cavern  of  coolness  and 


332  Drifting  Waters 

beauty  after  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  road.  It's  like" 
— ^he  stopped,  then  went  on  after  a  moment — "well, 
it's  just  coming  home  for  the  first  time  in  your  life,  if 
you  know  what  that  means.  There  are  no  words  for 
it.  You  know,  or — you  just  don't."  He  turned 
abruptly  to  go  out  of  the  room,  murmiuing  something 
about  washing  the  dust  off  before  tea. 

Anne  had  an  impulse  to  run  after  him,  to  slip  her 
arm  through  his,  to  whisper  something,  anything 
that  would  show  that  she  understood,  but  he  had  gone 
before  the  formless  thing  could  take  shape. 

With  a  little  sigh  she  turned  to  the  tea-table  which 
stood  ready  and  began  to  busy  herself  with  it. 

The  moment  had  passed  when  he  returned.  He 
was  once  more  the  cool  friendly  Richard  of  last  night, 
asking  questions  about  Trent,  the  Egertons,  her  jour- 
ney, her  experiences  of  the  day. 

Anne  answered,  feeling  a  faint  surprise  at  herself 
and  her  own  surface  nonchalance.  It  was  easy  of 
attainment,  she  found,  at  least  so  long  as  he  preserved 
his  present  calm  demeanour.  Yet  there  were  things 
that  must  be  said,  truths  that  must  be  spoken  if  the 
way  to  that  real  understanding  of  which  he  had  hinted 
last  night  were  to  be  smoothed  before  them. 

Anne  was  no  diplomatist.  She  did  not  know  how 
to  pave  ways  for  easy  speech.  At  the  first  opening 
she  plunged  with  all  her  old  directness. 

"Ricky,"  she  began,  her  throat  pulsing  with  the 
effort,  "I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

He  glanced  up  quickly,  surprised  at  the  note  of 
earnestness,  of  desperation  almost,  so  unexpectedly 
struck  in  the  midst  of  their  light  conversation. 

"Yes,"  he  said  gently,  "what  is  it,  Anne?" 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       333 

"It's  this,"  she  blurted,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  thin 
tanned  face,  on  his  half -veiled  eyes.  "We  began  all 
wrong,  Ricky.  We  started  with  deceit.  It's  a  bad 
foundation  to — to  build  a  real  thing  on.  The  thought 
stabs  me  every  time  I  think  of  it."     Her  voice  choked. 

"It  was  my  fault  entirely.  I  have  often  and  often 
blamed  myself.  You  were  too  young,  too  inexperi- 
enced. You  can't  think  half  as  badly  of  me  as  I  do 
of  myself.  It  was  madness — worse  than  madness  on 
my  part.     I  can't  forgive  myself." 

"There's  no  use  in  thinking  that  now,"  Anne  went 
on  desperately.  "The  thing  is  done  and  can't  be  un- 
done. You  burned  your  boats  when  you  sent  that 
cable,  Richard.     We've  got  to  go  on  with  it  now." 

"Don't  you  want  to,  Anne?" 

"I — oh,  yes.  I  suppose  so.  But  oh,  if  I  had  only 
told  her!  If  she  only  knew!  If  only  I  hadn't  lived 
with  her  in  deceit  all  that  time!"  Anne's  voice 
broke,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Richard  was  silent  for  a  moment.  In  that  silence 
each  realized  the  intense  loneliness  of  every  human 
being.  They  were  so  near  in  body,  so  far  apart  in  all 
that  counted.  Even  the  human  comfort  of  physical 
contact  was  denied  them  by  the  barrier  which  pride 
and  misunderstanding  had  built  up  between  them. 

Yet  each  was  longing  to  rend  the  veil  which  shrouded 
spirit  from  spirit,  and  each  was  bitterly  conscious  of 
the  unassailable  severance. 

Richard  pushed  back  his  chair.  It  made  a  little 
grating  noise  on  the  bare  polished  floor. 

"What's  done  is  done,"  he  said  at  last.  His  voice 
sounded  harsh  with  repressed  feeling.  "It  can't  be 
undone   now,   Anne.     There  is  no   use  letting   the 


334  Drifting  Waters 

\iemories  of  the  past  embitter  the  future.  We  started 
j^rong,  as  you  say.  Let's  take  care  to  steer  a  clear 
course  from  this  on.  Let's  be  straight  with  each 
other  anyhow." 

"Yes.  That  is  what  I  wish,"  she  said,  cooling  at 
his  fancied  coldness. 

"You  know  my  views  on  marriage.  I  take  it  that 
yours  are  the  same.  We've  got  a  good  foimdation 
to  work  on,  at  all  events ;  a  good  many  things  in  com- 
mon. The  present  is  all  we're  sure  of.  Let's  make 
the  best  of  that  and  not  grouse  over  the  inevitable. 
Are  you  agreed?" 

Anne  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair. 

"Yes.  Certainly.  I  gave  you  your  chance  of 
getting  out  of  it  if  you " 

"Did  you  want  to  get  out  of  it,  Anne?"  he  inter- 
rupted. "Tell  me,  once  for  all.  We  need  never 
speak  of  it  again." 

"I?     No,"  she  said,  looking  straight  at  him. 

His  face  cleared.  He  drew  a  breath  of  relief  that 
was  almost  a  sigh. 

"Then  that's  all  right.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret, 
Anne?" 

She  nodded,  surprised  at  his  altered  demeanour, 
and  wondering  if  she  would  ever  understand  this  man 
who  was  and  yet  who  was  not  Ricky. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  there  were  any  boats  to  burn, 
but  if  I  had — "  he  stopped. 

"If  you  had?"  she  echoed. 

"  I'd  have  burnt  a  whole  navy  of  them,"  he  declared. 
She  smiled  very  wistfully. 

"Would  you  really?" 

The  door  opened  and  Khalll  announced: 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs      335 

"Moussa  Bey,  ya  sitt." 

Both  started.  Richard  murmured  something  un- 
der his  breath  as  they  rose  to  greet  Moussa  Bey,  an 
elderly  Arab  gentleman  in  black  frock-coat  and  red 
tarhUsh,  who  bowed  over  Anne's  hand  as  he  welccmed 
her  to  El-Medlneh. 


IV 


When  Moussa  Bey  had  taken  his  departure  after 
the  interchange  of  many  compliments  and  politenesses, 
and  a  request  that  Anne  would  visit  his  wife,  Richard 
turned  to  her  with  a  little  look  of  pride  which  stirred 
her  heart. 

"Your  French  is  a  valuable  asset,  Anne,"  he  said. 
"Moussa  Bey  is  much  more  fluent  in  that  language 
than  in  English.  And  I  don't  believe  that  Madame 
Moussa  Bey  has  any  English  at  all." 

"It  did  seem  rather  a  relief  to  him  when  he  found 
that  I  knew  French,"  Anne  rejoined.  "He  seems  to 
find  English  pronunciation  very  difficult." 

Richard  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  at  some 
memory. 

"I  recollect  the  first  time  I  met  him  he  made  the 
same  plaint  to  me.  He  had  just  been  in  Oxford,  he 
said.  How  was  one  ever  to  understand  a  language 
which  spelt  a  word  'manure'  and  pronounced  it 
'man-yaw'!  He  waxed  quite  pathetic  over  it,  too. 
Such  a  sample  for  him  to  choose ! "     He  laughed  again. 

Anne  smiled.     "What  sort  is  Madame,  Ricky?" 

"My  dear  child,  I've  never  seen  her.  She  is  his 
'  house. '  It  would  be  the  grossest  ill-breeding  on  my 
part  even  to  refer  to  her." 


33^  Drifting  Waters 

Anne  looked  puzzled. 

"It's  difficult  enough  to  understand  the  people  of 
one's  own  nation,"  she  said.  "It  must  be  impossible 
to  understand  those  of  others." 

"Not  at  all,"  Richard  said  cheerfully.  "Human 
natiu-e  is  the  same  all  the  world  over.  The  differences 
are  generally  superficial,  and  the  result  of  climate  or 
environment.  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  the  person 
who  said  that  there  were  only  two  kinds  of  people  in 
the  world,  men  and  women,  and  the  more  one  saw  of 
them  the  less  difference  one  found  between  them." 

"I  don't  agree  at  all,"  cried  Anne.  "Men  and 
women  are  absolutely  different.  They  think  differ- 
ently, they  act  differently,  I  believe  they  see  everything 
differently." 

"Not  everything,  Anne." 

"Well,  nearly  everything,  then.  And  what's  more, 
I  don't  believe  they  ever  succeed  in  understanding 
each  other." 

"Naturally,"  returned  Richard  coolly.  "If  there 
are  all  those  fundamental  differences  between  them. 
But  I'm  more  inclined  to  agree  with  my  person — Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  I  think  it  was." 

"A  woman!"  cried  Anne. 

"She  had  more  discrimination  than  most  of  her 
delightful  sex,  I  admit,"  he  continued.  "May  I 
smoke?" 

"Certainly.  But  there  you  go,  erecting  a  barrier 
of  sex  at  once !   Pointing  the  difference  that  you  deny ! ' ' 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Be  more  human,"  she  cried  impulsively.  "It's 
so  hard  for  people  to  be  really  true  with  each  other. 
They  seem  to  play  about  on  the  surface  perpetually. 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       337 

All  their  talk  is  of  the  silly  little  trimmings  of  things. 
They  never  want  to  get  down  to  the  bare  bones." 

Richard  looked  at  her  over  the  flame  of  the  match 
which  he  held  to  his  pipe.  It  cast  a  strange  glow  on 
his  face,  accentuating  its  hollows  oddly. 

"  My  dear  Anne,"  he  said  with  deliberation.  "Bare 
bones  are  grim,  ugly  things.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
trimmings,  as  you  call  them,  we  should  live  in  an  un- 
pleasant world  of  skeletons.  And  as  for  being  human  " 
— he  cast  a  curious  glance  at  her — "well,  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  like  it  if  I  were  to  be  as  human  as  I  feel." 

He  got  up  and  threw  the  match  out  of  the  window. 

"Would  you  care  to  come  for  a  stroll  through  the 
town  before  dinner?"  he  asked. 

Anne's  impulse  was  to  refuse.  Her  lips  trembled 
at  what  she  chose  to  consider  his  rebuff.  Her  attempt 
at  intimacy,  at  understanding,  had  clasped  against  the 
wall  of  his  inner  reserve.  She  knew  so  little  of  men 
or  of  the  passions  of  men  that  she  never  even  remotely 
conceived  of  him  as  suffering.  All  she  realized  was 
that  she  had  tried  to  reach  him  and  that  she  had  failed. 
He  had  shown  her  her  place  very  clearly.  He  wanted 
only  the  trimmings,  the  surface  things  of  life.  Well, 
he  shoiild  have  them.  She  could  supply  those  quite 
easily,  more  easily  perhaps  than  the  deeper  thing  to 
which  she  had  crudely  referred  as  bare  bones. 

"It  would  be  very  pleasant,"  she  answered,  in  a 
detached  voice. 

He  looked  round  quickly,  caught  her  withdrawn 
glance,  and  whistled  the  "White  Chip"  motif  as  she 
vanished  from  the  room. 

She  heard  the  soft  low  notes  as  she  ran  up  the  stairs. 
Her  throat  swelled. 


338  Drifting  Waters 

"Well,  it's  my  only  safeguard,"  she  said  to  herself 
defiantly. 

She  had  quite  recovered  her  poise  when  she  joined 
him  a  few  minutes  later. 

The  brim  of  her  hat  cast  a  shadow  over  the  upper 
part  of  her  face  and  deepened,  for  Richard,  the  mystery 
of  her  eyes.  Never  had  he  been  so  poignantly  con- 
scious of  her  in  every  fibre,  yet  never,  even  when 
thousands  of  miles  had  separated  them,  did  she  seem 
to  be  farther  away.  She  looked  more  elusive  than 
ever  in  her  thin  black  gown,  and  the  gauzy  folds  of 
the  scarf  which  fluttered  round  her  looked  like  wisps 
of  black  cloud  and  enhanced  in  some  inexplicable  way 
the  sense  of  aloofness  which  enwrapped  her. 

Had  Richard  been  a  man  of  less  delicate  fibre,  less 
fastidious  reserve,  he  might  have  turned  her,  by  cap- 
ture, from  elf  to  woman;  but  he  trod  warily;  he  re- 
spected her  withdrawal;  his  pride  forbade  him  to 
trespass  on  forbidden  ground,  to  touch  even  with  a 
finger  what  was  so  coldly  withheld  from  him — even 
that  which  was  his,  as  the  world  might  see  it. 

He  had  himself  well  under  control  now  as  he  walked 
by  her  side  along  the  dusty  road. 

"Shall  we  go  see  the  sakkiyehs  first?"  he  asked. 
"You  will  Hke  to  see  the  source  of  your  music." 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

They  turned  down  a  pathway  of  beaten  mud  which 
led  beneath  a  cluster  of  palms  against  whose  rough 
trunks  squatted  men  in  black  or  white  woollen  robes, 
with  tiny  spindles  in  their  hands  roimd  which  they 
twirled  skeins  of  wool. 

The  sound  of  the  water  rose  higher  and  louder  as 
they  came  near  the  swift  flow  of  the  canal.     It  bubbled 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       339 

and  sang  as  it  rushed  from  level  to  level,  turning  the 
great  black  double  wheels;  gushing  out  through  the 
green  weed-fringed  apertures  in  their  sides,  making 
wild  strange  music  as  it  ran  gurgling  through  the 
grassy  channels  to  refresh  the  thirsty  earth,  purring, 
droning,  whining,  humming. 

Anne  stood  fascinated,  while  Richard  watched  her. 
Two  urchins  in  pink  and  orange  robes  had  followed 
them  from  the  road  and  gazed  curiously  at  the  mad 
Inglesi  who  were  looking  at  the  old  sakkiyehs. 

The  sky  behind  the  palm-trees  brightened.  Streams 
of  vivid  cloud  trailed  across  the  blue,  grew  more  intense, 
paled,  faded,  to  dun-coloured  wisps.  A  murmur  of 
voices  came  from  the  palm-grove,  the  half-discordant 
lilt  of  a  song.  In  the  fading  light  the  flat-topped 
houses  of  the  town,  the  bubble-like  domes  and  fretted 
minarets  of  the  mosques  grew  dim  and  unreal. 

Suddenly  the  sky  flamed  again  to  a  vision  of  rose 
and  scarlet,  touching  everything  to  an  unearthly 
beauty. 

Anne  sighed,  and  looked  up  at  Richard. 

The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs  and  the  wonder  of  the 
afterglow  merged  and  grew  almost  unbearable  in  their 
beauty. 

"Yes,"  said  Richard.  "I  know.  Let's  go  home 
again  and  explore  the  town  tomorrow." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  help  her  across  the  little 
channel  which  separated  them.  She  felt  a  sense  of 
safety  as  she  took  it. 

For  the  first  time  since  they  had  met  again  some- 
thing of  the  old  feeling  stole  over  her,  the  feeling  of 
well-being  in  Richard's  presence,  the  old  girlish  sense 
that  "it  was  all  right." 


340  Drifting  Waters 

After  dinner  they  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  drawing- 
room  window.     Richard  smoked. 

"You  will  have  another  opportunity  of  airing  your 
French  when  you  meet  Mrs.  D'Esterre,"  he  said  after 
a  pause. 

"Who  is  Mrs.  D'Esterre?"  asked  Anne  from  the 
step  above  him. 

How  nice  he  looked  when  he  smoked!  She  liked 
the  clean  cut  of  his  cheek  and  chin,  the  shape  of  his 
head,  the  way  his  eyes  were  set,  their  little  crinkle 
at  the  corners  when  he  smiled. 

"Mrs.  D'Esterre  is  my  patient  at  Lake  Kar<ln." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  lazily.  Something  of  the  sore 
ache  at  her  heart  seemed  to  have  subsided  now  that 
the  jar  of  familiar  and  reminiscent  surroundings  was 
removed. 

"It  was  rough  luck  on  her.  A  party  of  them  were 
camping  at  Lake  Kar{in,  known  to  the  ancients,  my 
dear  Anne,  as  Lake  Mceris  of  mystic  origin " 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  ancients,  tell  me  about  the 
moderns." 

"To  make  a  long  story  short,  she  sprained  her  ankle 
pretty  badly,  wrenching  the  muscles  rather  severely 
the  day  before  their  departure.  She  couldn't  move, 
of  course,  so  she  stayed  behind  while  the  others  went 
on  to  Luxor." 

"Did  they  leave  her  alone  here?" 

"No,  her  companion  is  with  her.  They  are  at  the 
little  Hotel  Moeris,  a  shanty  by  the  lake.  It  must  be 
deadly  dull  for  them.  Selfish  brutes  the  others  must 
have  been." 

"Did  you  see  any  of  them?" 

"Yes,  one  or  two.     Bent  on  amusement  and  rather 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       341 

annoyed  with  poor  Mrs.  D'Esterre  for  threatening  to 
upset  their  plans.  It  seems  that  they  were  to  meet 
some  particular  friends  at  Luxor  on  a  certain  date. 
Oh,  no  doubt  the  whole  thing  was  upsetting,  but  they 
were  beastly  selfish  about  it.  She,  however,  insisted 
on  their  going  as  arranged,  and  trusts  me  to  get  the 
ankle  right  as  soon  as  possible." 

"How  long  ago  did  this  take  place?" 

"About  ten  days  ago.  It  will  be  another  ten  or 
more  before  she  is  fit  to  move.  I  have  to  massage 
the  ankle  every  second  day.  I  should  go  every  day 
but  can't  spare  the  time." 

"Have  you  much  to  do  here?" 

"By  Jove,  I  believe  I'm  in  the  way  of  building  up 
a  pretty  decent  practice,"  said  Richard,  warming  to 
enthusiasm.  "Old  Moussa  Bey  is  a  brick  and  the 
best  advertising  agent  a  chap  could  have.  There  are 
a  good  many  Greeks  and  Copts  here,  who  have  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  faith  in  an  English  doctor  to  start 
with,  and  any  of  the  Englishmen  I've  met — Irrigation 
and  other  officials — are  awfully  decent.  It  seems  an 
opening,  a  distinct  opening." 

"That's  good,"  said  Anne  softly.  "But  tell  me 
more  about  Mrs.  D'Esterre.  Is  she  young  or  old, 
pretty  or  ugly!  Is  she  French?  She  must  be  if  you 
want  me  to  speak  it  to  her." 

Richard  pulled  at  his  pipe  for  a  moment  before  he 
answered.  She  could  see  its  red  glow  pulsing  in  the 
darkness.  It  seemed  strange  to  think  that  she  was 
here,  settled  into  this  semi-confidential  life  with  him. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  queer  sort  of  permanence  about 
it  already. 

"Mrs.  D'Esterre  is  French,"  he  said  slowly,  as  if 


342  Drifting  Waters 

he  were  thinking.  "She  speaks  perfect  English. 
She  is  not  very  young,  or  rather  I  should  say  she  is 
ageless.  One  does  not  think  of  years  in  connection 
with  her." 

"Cleopatra,"  put  in  Anne  quickly. 

"No,  not  Cleopatra,  quite  a  different  type." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"No." 

Anne  felt  an  absiu-d  sense  of  relief,  which  died 
equally  absurdly  as  he  continued: 

"She  is  not  pretty.  She  is  exquisite — exquisite 
with  a  kind  of  unique  silvery  fairness." 

"Fairness?"  Anne  echoed,  feeling  the  new  prick  of 
an  old  unrest.  "Is  it  dew  and  moonshine  or  snow 
and  roses  this  time?" 

"Neither,"  he  answered  with  a  little  laugh.  "I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  White  blossoms,  I  think,  or 
frost  filigree,  I  can't  analyse  it." 

"Is  she  frosty  to  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  returned  calmly.  " She's  very  charm- 
ing, very  fascinating,  and  reduced  to  the  sad  condi- 
tion of  catching  at  a  straw!" 

"Must  her  straws  be  masculine?" 

"I  fancy  so,"  he  answered.  "I  think  she  finds 
feminine  society  no  more  than  a  broken  reed.  But 
we  mustn't  mix  our  metaphors." 

"She  sounds  horrid,"  said  Anne. 

"Anything  but,  my  dear,"  rejoined  Richard  drily. 
"However  I  think  she  prefers  something  more  sub- 
stantial than  a  straw !  You'll  have  a  chance  of  seeing 
her  if  you  like.  She  wants  us  both  to  lunch  with  her 
when  her  foot  is  a  little  better." 

Anne  told  herself  that  it  was  ridiculous  for  her  to 


The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs       343 

be  jealous  of  a  woman  whom  she  had  never  seen  and 
of  whom  Richard  spoke  so  casually.  He  had  never 
spoken  so  easily  of  Lilias  Darner  or  Sister  Doris. 
Still,  he  had  had  a  boy's  enthusiasm  then.  He  was  a 
man  now.  How  was  she  to  know  what  fires  smould- 
ered beneath  his  reserve? 

"She  must  come  and  call  on  me  first,"  she  declared, 
a  little  stiffly. 

He  laughed.  "Anne  among  the  conventions!  It's 
too  funny!" 

She  laughed  too,  melting  suddenly, 

"It's  Aunt  Nancy,"  she  admitted.  "She  preached 
endless  sermons  on  etiquette  to  me,  but  that's  the 
only  bit  I  remember." 

"And  a  good  job  too,"  said  Richard,  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 


CHAPTER  II 

SILVERY  FAIRNESS 


THE  days  that  followed  alternated  for  Anne  with 
periods  of  truce-like  tranquillity  and  sudden 
disquietudes. 

Now  that  her  relations  with  her  husband  were 
clearly  defined,  with  lines  of  demarcation  carefully 
marked  out  and  the  necessary  "Thou  shalt "  or  " Thou 
shalt  not"  unexpressed  but  understood,  she  was  able 
to  give  herself  up  to  every  novelty  in  this  land  of 
contrasts. 

Her  mind  and  Richard's  were  very  closely  attuned. 
Their  tastes  were  pleasantly  similar.  Each  had  a 
quick  eye  for  the  odd  or  the  significant;  each  an 
appreciation  of  the  fantastic  and  unusual. 

It  pleased  them  to  pursue  the  comparison  of 
El-Medineh  with  Venice,  which  Richard  had  seen  in 
the  flesh  and  Anne  only  in  spirit. 

Venice  in  Egypt.  Strange  anomaly !  Venice  trans- 
lated from  its  cool  lights  and  opal  mists,  its  dead 
romance  and  its  living  grace,  into  the  hot  colour,  the 
dusty  glamour,  the  pulsing  life  of  the  East.  Here  in 
El-Medineh  were  no  gradations,  no  subtle  harmonies. 
All  was  sharp  and  sudden  contrast — blinding  sun- 

344 


Silvery  Fairness  345 

shine,  intense  shadow;  light-hearted  gaiety,  deepest 
gravity;  dim  cavernous  depths,  glowing  masses  of 
colour — colour  which  would  look  garish  to  crudity 
elsewhere,  but  seen  through  the  magic  atmosphere  of 
Egypt  was  only  brilliant  and  arresting. 

Anne  and  Richard  loved  to  follow  the  windings  of 
the  Bahr  Yllsuf,  the  great  canal  of  Joseph.  Like  the 
Grand  Canal  in  Venice  it  divided  the  town,  and  was 
spanned  here  and  there  by  bridges. 

The  banks  of  this  eastern  water,  unlike  its  Italian 
prototype,  were  bordered  with  low-growing  bushes; 
while  at  its  verge  tall  rushes  and  flowering  reeds 
swayed  lightly  forwards  as  if  to  touch  their  reflections. 
Black  and  white  kingfishers  flitted  from  bush  to  bush, 
while  now  and  then  came  the  sapphire  gleam  of  a 
halcyon  in  the  sunshine. 

The  first  time  that  they  walked  together  by  the 
Bahr  Yusuf  Anne  drew  Richard's  attention  to  a  sandy 
slope  near  the  water  that  was  covered  with  tiny  sharp 
prints  of  bird-claws,  double  tracks  where  the  bird  had 
hopped,  single  where  it  had  run. 

"There's  something  that  fascinates  me  about  that. 
I  don't  know  why, "  she  said,  looking  at  the  tiny  foot- 
prints, clear  as  if  etched  in  black  upon  the  yellow  sand. 
"It's  like  some  strange  writing,  I  want  to  read  it. 
I  feel  that  I  should  get  at  the  meaning  of  something  if 
I  could.     Do  you  think  me  silly?" 

"Anything  but,"  Richard  answered.  "It  is  like  a 
hieroglyph  of  some  sort.  The  translation  of  it  is 
probably  the  meaning  of  life.  If  we  could  read  that, 
Anne,  we  should  walk  as  gods,  not  men. " 

He  stifled  a  sigh,  and  taking  her  arm  drew  her  gently 
aside  to  avoid  contact  with  a  water-carrier  who  was 


346  Drifting  Waters 

coming  up  a  beaten  path  by  the  bank.  He  was  a  very 
dark  man,  shaggy  and  wild-eyed,  in  blue  rags  and 
leathern  apron,  and  he  was  bent  almost  double  be- 
neath the  weight  of  the  distended  goat-skin  which  he 
carried  across  his  shoulders. 

"One  has  to  be  careful  with  those  chaps,"  Richard 
explained.  "The  water-carriers  belong  to  the  most 
fanatical  sect  in  Egypt.  They  are  generally  at  the 
bottom  of  most  of  the  rows. " 

"Oh! "  Anne  gave  a  little  gasp,  realizing  how  far  she 
was  from  quiet  England,  with  its  law  and  placidity. 
"This  place  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  in  a  band- 
box all  my  life. " 

" So  you  have, "  he  rejoined.  "I'm  glad  that  it  has 
been  given  to  me  to  take  its  lid  off. " 

She  glanced  quickly  up  at  him,  but  tone  and  expres- 
sion were  alike  tranquil  and  friendly,  no  more. 

They  walked  on  for  a  little  in  silence,  each  wondering 
what  the  other  was  thinking.  Beneath  Richard's 
apparent  calm  the  cry  of  ages  went  up:  "How  long, 
O  Lord,  how  long?" 

Anne's  mind  sought  among  her  desultory  reading  for 
similes  for  their  apartness.  "We  are  Spirits  clad  in 
veils" — "We  are  columns  left  alone,  of  a  Temple  once 
complete"  kept  running  through  her  brain. 

Yet  their  eyes  and  those  surface  selves  that  had  so 
much  to  do  these  days  looked  with  interest  at  their 
surroundings,  drew  parallels,  pointed  comparisons, 
as  they  went. 

As  in  Venice,  in  some  places  a  roadway  separated 
the  houses  from  the  water,  but  some  of  the  many 
branches  of  the  Bahr  Yiisuf  ran  between  walls  of  light 
harmonious  colour.     High  houses  they  were,  of  pale 


Silvery  Fairness  347 

blue,  pink,  and  cream  striped  with  broad  bands  of  soft 
red:  houses  with  steps  down  to  the  water's  edge: 
houses  shuttered  and  balconied  in  carved  green  or 
brown  wood.  The  green  had  not  the  bold  tint  of  the 
true  Venetian  "persiani."  Here,  in  El-Medineh,  the 
all-absorbing  sunshine  had  sucked  the  colour  out  of  it 
until  it  shaded  to  a  cool  soft  hue. 
^  Over  one  balcony  hung  a  rose  and  purple  mat  in 
true  Venetian  fashion,  while  from  another  an  Arab 
in  a  black  galabtyeh  shook  a  vivid  rug. 

From  a  tall,  secret-looking  house  came  the  sound  of 
a  voice,  rising  and  falling  to  the  monotonous  throb  of  a 
tambourine,  which  beat  like  a  pulse  under  the  bare 
hand  of  the  player.  Suddenly  the  voice  rose  with  a 
shrill  poignance  to  a  height  that  seemed  almost  incred- 
ible, so  thin  it  was,  so  piercing.  Then  it  died  away 
with  the  trill  and  turn  so  beloved  of  Egyptian  singers. 

"There's  the  East  for  you,"  said  Richard,  with  a 
queer  little  laugh  as  the  last  echo  of  the  song  died 
away  into  silence. 

"I— I  don't  think  I  like  it,"  Anne  faltered. 

Something  in  the  wild  secret  passion  of  the  voice 
had  stirred  her  blood  uncomfortably.  She  felt  almost 
as  if  it  were  upon  her  heart  that  the  bare  hand  of  the 
tambourine-player  was  beating. 

Richard  laughed  again. 

"Why?    Too  English  I  suppose. " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  Anne  began,  filled  with 
sudden,  inexplicable  anger. 

Then  she  stopped,  wondering  why  she  should  feel 
so  angry  with  him.  It  was  not  a  crime  to  be  English, 
after  all,  though  there  was  little  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
in  the  mixture  that  ran  in  her  veins. 


348  Drifting  Waters 

"It — it  roused  something  in  me  that  I  don't  like," 
she  said  with  an  effort.  "It's  the  Tudor  in  me,  I 
suppose.     I  resent  that. " 

"Anne,  you're  a  dear,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 
"But  you  must  remember  that  you're  not  a  Tudor 
any  longer.     You're  an  Assheton  now. " 

"But  I  don't  feel  a  bit  like  an  Assheton,"  she  said, 
shaking  her  head. 

They  both  laughed. 

"You'll  have  to  acquire  the  feeling,  then,"  Richard 
said.     "Will  it  be  difficult?" 

"I — don't  know,"  she  answered,  feeling  as  if  the 
veil  between  them  had  grown  thinner. 

These  tremors  and  transitions  of  feeling  were  tiring. 
Anne  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  her  emotions 
would  not  sweep  so  violently  from  pole  to  pole;  that 
she  could  dwell  in  a  Peace-Pool  whose  waters  were 
never  troubled.  As  it  was  she  had  no  real  inner  peace 
or  ease;  nothing  but  these  disturbing  transitions  of 
feeling  which  any  chance  word  or  sound  might  evoke. 

She  sighed.     Richard  looked  quickly  at  her. 

"Tired?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  perhaps,  a  little." 

"We'll  go  no  farther,  then.  We  can  go  back 
through  the  bazaars.  It's  a  shorter  way.  Do  you 
know  that  the  covered  bazaar  is  on  a  bridge  which  runs 
across  the  Bahr  Yilsuf,  so  that  you  actually  cross  the 
canal  without  knowing  it?  It's  a  fascinating  place 
altogether.     Don't  you  find  it  so?" 

"Yes.  I  find  it  very  fascinating."  Her  voice 
sounded  tired.     He  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Sabina  will  want  to  know  if  I  have  killed  you 
entirely,"  he  went  on. 


HE    POINTED    OUT  TO    HER    VIGNETTES    OF   ARAB    LIFE 


Silvery  Fairness  349 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't.  You  are  a  prime  favourite  of 
hers,  Ricky.  You  can  do  no  wrong  in  her  eyes.  I 
should  get  scant  sympathy  from  her  if  I  confessed  to 
being  tired.  She'd  probably  tell  me  'twas  the  way  the 
exercise  was  very  good  for  me!" 

"Is  it  possible  that  you're  jealous,  Anne?"  he  asked 
with  a  twinkle.  "  I  think  that  I  detect  a  sort  of  tang 
in  your  tone. " 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  she  answered  smiling.  "I 
am  very  thankful  that  Sabina  likes  you.  You  don't 
know  what  she  can  be  when  she  is  prejudiced  against 
any  one." 

" If  you're  tired  would  you  take  my  arm  for  a  bit?" 
he  suggested  tentatively. 

Anne  flushed  and  hesitated,  then  slipped  her  arm 
through  his.     After  all,  why  not? 

"I  believe  I'm  making  a  great  fuss  about  nothing, " 
she  declared.     "I'm  not  really  very  tired  at  all. " 

He  pointed  out  to  her  vignettes  of  Arab  life  as  they 
went  on  their  way :  a  wayside  barber  shaving  his  chin- 
tilted  victim.  A  shop  where  marriage-chests  were 
sold,  rough  wooden  boxes  on  four  rude  legs,  crudely 
painted  with  primitive  designs  in  flaming  red  or  yellow 
the  very  antithesis  of  those  gilded  Venetian  cassone 
which  the  great  craftsmen  of  old  loved  to  paint  and 
decorate.  A  booth  full  of  pottery,  huge  water-jars 
which  the  women  poise  beautifully  on  their  heads, 
quaintly  shaped  jugs  and  pots  and  pipkins,  all  in  cool 
tones  of  grey  and  cream  and  green.  A  tarhush  shop, 
gay  with  rows  of  crimson,  blue-tasselled  fezzes,  some 
neatly  wrapped  in  tissue-paper,  while  on  a  shelf 
beneath  gleamed  the  two-handled  brass  moulds  on 
which  they  were  made. 


350  Drifting  Waters 

Then  came  a  vista  of  bazaars,  cool  and  shady  after 
the  strong  heat  outside — a  vista  filled  with  the  colour 
of  oranges  and  tomatoes,  of  strings  of  dried  green 
pods,  of  bowls  of  yellow  millet  and  maize,  of  high- 
piled  cream  baskets,  of  fiat  dhurra-cakes,  of  little 
green  onions. 

Richard  halted  abruptly  outside  a  sweet-seller's 
little  booth  at  the  end  of  the  bazaar.  A  crazy  awning 
protected  the  sticky  white  and  brown  wares  from  the 
sun,  while  a  pink  and  grey  parrot  swung  in  a  cage 
overhead,  swearing  fluently  in  choicest  Arabic. 

"Ponsonby!"  he  cried.  "I  completely  forgot  to 
inquire  what  had  become  of  him?" 

The  sweetmeat-seller,  a  little  one-eyed  man  in  a 
faded  red  galabtyeh,  emerged  from  behind  the  stall, 
flourishing  a  fly-switch  over  the  sweets. 

"Nice!  Very  nice,"  he  cried  taking  up  a  sticky 
whitish  square  and  offering  it  to  Richard. 

"No,  no,  I  don't  want  any,"  he  said,  waving  him 
away. 

The  sight  of  the  parrot  had  brought  the  same 
remembrance  to  Anne. 

It  sent  a  stab  through  her  to  think  how  far  away 
those  days  already  seemed,  something  of  the  same 
sense  of  unwitting  disloyalty  which  had  smitten  her 
long  ago  in  those  first  days  at  Trent. 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  would  ask  about  him," 
she  answered,  rather  low.  "Poor  Ponsonby!  He 
nearly  died.  He  sat  huddled  on  his  perch  with  his 
feathers  ruffled,  and  would  eat  nothing.  Then  Uncle 
Robert  talked  to  him  one  day  in  Hindustani,  and  he 
began  to  brighten.  After  that  he  took  the  greatest 
fancy  to  Uncle  Robert  and  talks  to  him  as  long  as  he 


Silvery  Fairness  351 

will  let  him.  He  tried  to  bite  everyone  else  who  went 
near  him,  even  me. " 

"Even  you?  Poor  little  Anne,"  said  Richard, 
giving  her  arm  a  little  squeeze  against  his  side.  "That 
was  hard." 

"I  left  him  at  Trent.  He  lives  in  the  study,  and 
screams  with  delight  whenever  Uncle  Robert  comes 
into  the  room." 

"Does  Nancy  talk  Hindustani  to  him?" 

"She  sometimes  says  'utcha'  or  'kutcha'  or  some 
word  like  that,  but  she  declares  that  she  could  never 
learn  any  more  of  the  heathen  language,  as  she  calls 
it." 

"How  does  Ponsonby  take  it?" 

"He  swears  at  her.  Really,  Ricky,  he  does !  When- 
ever she  says  'utcha'  or  'kutcha*  to  him  he  just 
looks  at  her  and  gives  one  long  whistle  of  contempt, 
then  he  hunches  his  shoulders  at  her  and  turns  away. " 

"He's  a  queer  old  bird,"  said  Richard,  "but 
there's  something  beautiful  about  his  loyalty,  all  the 
same. " 

"Yes,  even  though  he's  only  a  bird  it's  a  real  thing, " 
returned  Anne  softly. 

"Anne,"  said  Richard,  after  a  pause,  "how  did 
Nancy  take  it?" 

"Take  what?" 

"The  news  about  us." 

Anne's  face  reddened  as  at  a  painful  memory. 

"She  was  hurt,  of  course,  very  much  hurt  at  our — 
our  deception,  but  once  she  had  got  used  to  the  idea 
she  was  quite  pleased.  " 

"I  hope  you  let  the  blame  lie  on  the  right  shoulders, " 
he  said,  rather  sadly.     "But  I'm  afraid  you  didn't. " 


352  Drifting  Waters 

"Why?" 

* '  Because  I  know  you,  Anne. " 

"Oh!     Do  you?" 

"Partly,  at  any  rate,"  he  continued.  "I  had  a 
letter  from  Nancy  today.  She  was  hurt  with  us  both, 
but  I  think  she's  made  up  her  mind  to  forgive  us. 
Our  marriage  had  always  been  a  pet  project  of  hers, 
she  said. " 

"She  forgave  me  long  before  I  left  Trent.  She  was 
very  kind,  very  good  to  me. " 

"I  can't  forgive  myself,"  Richard  went  on.  "I 
had  no  right  to  steal  happiness  in  that  way.  I  should 
have  asked  for  it  honestly  in  the  light  of  day,  not 
sneaked  after  it  when  no  one  was  looking. " 

"Richard !  You  include  me  in  every  word  you  say. 
I  was  just  as  much  to  blame  as  you.  But  I  don't 
think  steal  is  the  right  word.  Snatch  is  better.  We 
snatched  at  happiness,  and  like  the  Blue  Bird  it  flew 
away." 

"Didn't  it  leave  even  a  tail-feather  behind?" 
Richard's  eyes  sought  hers  wistfully. 

"I — don't  know.     Tail-feathers  aren't  much  use." 

"He  can't  steer  without  them,"  said  Richard 
whimsically.  "Oh,  Anne,  I  do  hope  we  haven't 
pulled  out  enough  to  prevent  him  from  steering  him- 
self back  into  the  cage  I've  built  for  him!" 

"Have  you  built  a  cage?"  asked  Anne  very  low. 

"I'm  building  one,  anyhow." 

"You  must  put  something  into  it  that  will  tempt 
him  to  go  inside. " 

"All  my  hopes  and  all  my  dreams,"  thought 
Richard,  but  he  was  chary  of  imperilling  his  chances, 
so  he  did  not  utter  his  thoughts  aloud.     He  did  not 


Silvery  Fairness  353 

want  to  run  the  risk  of  having  his  dreams  trampled 
under  foot.  Anne's  changes  of  mood  were  impossible 
to  foresee,  and  always  difiScult  to  follow. 

"What  would  you  suggest?"  he  asked,  in  a  care- 
fully light  tone. 

She  moved  impatiently.  "Oh,  I  don't  know. 
Nothing.     I  think  we  are  talking  nonsense. " 

"All  the  really  nice  people  in  the  world  talk 
nonsense.     I'm  sure  Sabina  would  agree  with  me." 

"Sabina  is  a  woman.  She  would  agree  with  you 
just  because  you  happen  to  be  a  man. " 

"Anne,  is  this  an  indictment?" 

The  half -laughing  words  carried  her  on  the  wings  of 
memory  back  to  her  early  childhood,  the  dusky  fire-lit 
room  at  Caroline  Place,  herself  a  questioning  child  at 
her  mother's  knee,  with  the  doll's  bridal-veil  half- 
hemmed  in  her  hand.  Her  mother's  eyes,  half- 
mocking,  half -serious,  looked  out  at  her  out  of  the 
past. 

"Anne,  is  this  an  indictment?" 

Loneliness  swept  over  her  like  a  flood,  bringing  a 
rush  of  tears.  She  turned  her  head  lest  Richard 
should  see  them. 

"Anne,  have  I  hurt  you?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Oh,  do  let  me  alone,"  she  murmured  in  a  choked 
voice,  withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  arm. 

The  action  hurt  as  well  as  puzzled  Richard.  Was 
ever  woman  so  incomprehensible  ?  he  wondered.  Here, 
without  warning,  was  one  of  those  swift  changes  of 
mood  to  which  he  had  no  clue.  He  had  not  the  least 
idea  how  he  could  have  jarred.  They  had  seemed  to 
be  progressing  towards  understanding,  too;  towards 
that  ideal  of  marriage  for  which  his  sore  heart  craved, 
•3 


354  Drifting  Waters 

when  suddenly  they  were  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  which 
set  every  nerve  quivering.  He  could  not  understand 
it. 

"I  give  it  up, "  he  said  suddenly. 

"What?"  she  asked,  flicking  away  her  tears 
surreptitiously. 

"The  riddle  of  your  delightful  sex,  my  dear,"  he 
answered  drily.  "There  was  only  one  CEdipus,  and 
even  he  did  not  solve  the  real  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Richard?" 

"Simply  that  I  don't  understand  you,  Anne." 

"Did  any  man  ever  understand  any  woman?" 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Doubtless  many  have  tried — and  failed,"  he 
answered.  "One  shouldn't  grumble  at  having  to 
belong  to  the  great  majority.  Personally,  I  hate 
majorities.  They  are  so  smug  and  so  complacently 
powerful,  so  horribly  cocksure  of  being  always  in  the 
right." 

"Perhaps  you  belong  to  the  minority  after  all," 
said  Anne,  rather  timidly.  She  hated  herself  for  not 
being  able  to  explain  her  recent  petulance  to  him,  but 
the  very  mention  of  her  mother's  name  to  any  one 
was  a  difficulty,  and  to  Richard,  owing  to  the  way 
in  which  she  had  repulsed  his  sympathy,  almost  an 
impossibility. 

He  did  not  see  the  tentative  olive-branch. 

"Oh,  I  don't  wish  to  be  the  exception  that  proves 
a  well-known  rule, "  he  said,  in  the  same  slightly  hard 
tone,  feeling  further  thrust  back  into  himself  than 
ever. 

Oddly  enough  Anne  was  also  suffering  from  that 
most  unpleasant  sensation. 


Silvery  Fairness  355 

II 

Time  passed. 

Richard  went  every  second  day  to  see  his  patient 
at  Lake  Kariin,  whose  ankle  took  longer  to  heal  than 
he  had  anticipated.  He  always  seemed,  to  Anne's 
jealous  fancy,  to  be  less  approachable  after  these 
visits.  When  she  questioned  him  about  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
his  answers  were  monosyllabic,  yet  a  smile  lingered 
round  his  lips  as  at  some  pleasant  memory,  and  his  air 
at  times  was  dreamy  and  abstracted. 

Sometimes  she  felt  that  she  would  like  to  shake  him, 
and  then  at  intervals  he  was  so  charming,  so  com- 
panionable, that  the  sense  of  unrest  and  the  desire  for 
the  unattainable  rose  within  her,  stirring  her  almost  to 
turbulence. 

This  generally  happened  on  what  she  called  the 
"off"  days — the  days  when  he  did  not  go  to  Lake 
Kar<in.  She  grew  to  look  on  these  days  as  oases, 
green  oases  filled  with  flowers  of  torment  and  delight. 

On  the  other  days  she  sometimes  visited  Madame 
Moussa  Bey  or  invited  her  to  her  own  house,  but  she 
found  little  satisfaction  in  this  interchange  of  civilities. 
Moussa  Bey  himself  was  an  intelligent,  well-educated 
man,  but  his  wife  was  listless  and  took  no  interest  in 
anything  save  her  two  little  girls,  fashions,  and  French 
novels. 

Anne  had  read  but  few  of  the  latter,  and  those 
unknown  to  Madame  Moussa  Bey.  The  subject  of 
fashions  was  soon  exhausted,  and  the  children  were 
precocious  imps,  who  ate  an  enormous  quantity  of 
sweets  and  chattered  incessantly  in  voices  as  shrill  as 
jays.     The  two  households  had  but  little  in  common. 


356  Drifting  Waters 

Sometimes  Anne  took  Sabina  with  her  through  the 
town.  Khalil  always  accompanied  them  at  a  few 
paces'  distance,  brushing  aside  inquisitive  boys  or 
children  with  an  arrogance  peculiar  to  himself. 

Sabina  adapted  herself  to  the  unusual  life  with  a 
calm  complacency  born  to  her  own  sense  of  innate 
superiority.  Anything  which  seemed  to  her  peculiar 
(and  her  insular  vision  was  filled  with  such  sights) 
she  accepted  as  part  and  parcel  of  what  she  called  the 
"heathendom"  that  surrounded  her. 

"The  land  of  blacks"  she  called  Egypt,  irrespective 
of  the  many  tones  of  colour,  from  ripe  corn  to  mahog- 
any, which  she  saw  in  her  excursions,  and  no  amount 
of  argument  or  persuasion  on  the  part  of  Anne  could 
cause  her  to  alter  the  title. 

She  was  far  from  satisfied  with  the  relations 
between  her  master  and  mistress. 

"I  can't  abide  them  new-fangled  ways,"  she  told 
herself,  "separate  rooms,  and  the  like,  and  never  a 
kiss  that  I  can  see  passing  between  them!  'Tis  no 
fishes'  blood  they  has,  either  of  them.  Fine,  warm, 
young  creatures  in  their  prime,  and  all  that  coldness! 
I  declare  it  beats  me,  it  do.  'Tis  again'  the  Bible  it 
is,  too.  Man  and  woman  created  He  them,  and  m.an 
and  woman  He  meant  them  to  be,  not  two  walking 
icebergs!" 

But  she  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself,  and  neither 
Anne  nor  Richard  had  the  least  idea  of  how  shrewdly 
they  were  being  watched  and  judged. 

Anne  loved  the  traffic  of  the  town.  Along  the 
street  bordered  with  acacias  came  and  went  students, 
soberly  suited  in  kuftdns  of  blue,  grey,  or  fawn  over 
snowy-white  under-robes,  talking  to  each  other  with 


Silvery  Fairness  357 

grave  gestures,  and  comparing  notes  on  their  studies 
as  they  walked. 

Here,  in  their  seasons,  were  date-sellers  with  their 
reddish-purple  wares  clustering  on  saffron  stalks,  and 
boys  with  flat  baskets  of  oranges  on  their  heads,  crying 
"Country  oranges!  Sweet  oranges!"  Quail-sellers 
with  their  net  bags  full  of  the  pretty  brown-speckled 
birds;  women  with  red  cloths  full  of  eggs  or  young 
unfledged  pigeons;  men  with  little  wooden  spindles  in 
their  hands,  spinning  white  or  brown  wool  as  they 
went. 

Camels  threaded  their  way  superciliously  through 
the  throng,  bearing  on  their  backs  great  sheaves  of 
mauve-shafted  sugar-cane  whose  leaves  trailed  on  the 
ground  behind. 

Anne  thought  that  this  made  them  look  like  gro- 
tesque giant  peacocks  with  drooping  tails,  and  said 
so  to  Sabina. 

"Lord  love  you,  Miss  Anne,  ma'am,  and  give  you 
sense!"  cried  Sabina.  "Peacocks  indeed.  What 
next,  I  wonder?" 

Anne  laughed,  then  sighed.  Certainly  Richard  was 
the  one  person  with  whom  she  could  really  enjoy  a 
walk.  He  saw  things  as  soon  as  she  did,  or  sooner. 
Sometimes  it  was  almost  a  race  between  them  as  to 
which  should  be  first  with  perception  or  comparison. 

Walks  with  Sabina  were  stale  and  savourless.  If 
she  pointed  out  to  her  a  living  reproduction  of  the 
Flight  into  Egypt — a  blue-robed  man  with  a  long 
staff,  leading  a  donkey  tasselled  in  crimson  wool  which 
carried  a  dark-draped  mother  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
whose  wistful  eyes  peered  out  beneath  the  shadow  of 
her  head-shawl — Sabina  would  only  ejaculate: 


358  Drifting  Waters 

"  Is  it  them  blacks !  Well,  really,  ma'am  you  ought 
to  think  better  than  to  even  the  Bible  with  the  likes  of 
them!" 

Anne  gave  it  up  after  that,  merely  indicating  the 
open  cafes  by  the  canal  banks,  where  men  in  red  tar- 
bUshes  sat  for  hours  playing  tric-trac,  sipping  coffee  and 
smoking  narghilehs  or  cigarettes. 

' '  Lazy  divils !  Have  they  nothing  better  to  do  with 
theirselves?"  was  her  invariable  comment. 

The  shops  she  openly  despised. 

"  Is  it  call  them  shops  ? ' '  she  said  scornfully.  ' '  Them 
little  ramshackle  places,  where  you  might  be  knocking 
two  ha'pennies  together  many  a  long  day  before  you'd 
see  e'er  a  thing  worth  spending  them  on!" 

Even  the  slipper-shops,  with  their  rows  of  vivid 
scarlet  or  lemon-yellow  shoes,  failed  to  appeal. 

She  stopped  to  look  with  curiosity  at  one  of  the 
white-robed  workers  cutting  the  leather  into  oddly- 
shaped  pieces,  which  a  httle  boy  in  a  brown  cap  and 
orange  garment  beat  until  they  were  soft  enough 
to  be  handed  to  another  boy,  who  sewed  them 
together. 

"Well,  you  may  call  it  the  land  of  blacks, "  she  said 
after  a  pause.  ' '  The  poor  heathens  don't  know  how  to 
make  a  decent  shoe  in  it!" 

Anne  gave  Khalil  money  to  buy  some  of  the  slippers 
for  her  before  they  went  on,  past  a  shop  which  sold 
lanterns,  rough  affairs  of  tin  and  glass  which  sparkled 
in  the  hot  sunlight,  and  a  crude  drapery  establishment, 
in  which  horizontal  slabs  of  flaming  scarlet,  pink,  and 
yellow  cottons  rose,  tier  after  tier,  to  the  ceiling  in 
vivid  splashes  of  colour. 

"Home  after  this,  ma'am,  please,"  begged  Sabina. 


Silvery  Fairness  359 

"I've  had  enough  of  the  heat,  and  the  dust,  and  the 
hussies  with  their  tattooed  faces  and  scarcely  a  rag  to 
cover  'em,  and  the  men  that  look  at  you  as  impudent 
as  you  please." 

Anne  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  any  one  would  dare 
to  be  impudent  to  you,  Sabina. " 

"Not  with  Kalee  at  my  back,"  she  said.  "For  a 
black  he's  a  wonderfully  respectable  man.  He  knows 
the  way  to  deal  with  'em.  Only  for  him  they'd  be 
round  us  like  flies." 

"  It  certainly  gives  one  a  comfortable  feeling  to  have 
him  with  us, "  Anne  returned. 

"It's  the  way  he  is  devoted  to  the  master,"  began 
Sabina,  then  breaking  off — "Talk  of  angels,  there's 
himself  coming  to  meet  us,  ma'am. " 

Anne  looked  and  with  a  leap  of  her  heart  saw  Rich- 
ard coming  towards  them  through  the  multi-coloured 
throng,  a  tall,  clean-knit  figure  in  white.  Interest 
quickened  in  her  at  once. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  to  meet  you,"  he  said  as 
he  came  near.  "I  got  back  a  little  earlier  than  I 
expected." 

"In  spite  of  the  fascinations  of  the  Silvery  Fair- 
ness?" smiled  Anne,  with  a  little  tilt  of  her  head. 

"Thanks  to  Zobeida's  swiftness  more  than  anything 
else,"  he  rejoined.  "She  goes  like  the  wind  when  I 
give  her  her  head.  I  put  her  at  two  or  three  jumps  on 
the  way  and  she  went  over  them  like  a  bird. " 

"I  want  to  see  her  jiunp." 

"So  you  shall.  I'll  take  you  out  with  me  tomorrow 
morning  if  you  like.  Or  no,  to-morrow  afternoon. 
I'll  get  another  camel  for  you  and  we'll  ride  out  to 
the  water-mills." 


36o  Drifting  Waters 

"Will  the  beast  run  away  with  me,  Ricky?"  asked 
Anne,  a  Uttle  dismayed. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I'll  get  Khalil  to  charter  a  lamb- 
like animal,  and  we  shall  go  just  as  slowly  as  you  like. 
I'll  put  Zobeida  through  her  paces  for  you,  and  you 
shall  ride  her  back  if  you  wish. " 

"Is  any  camel  ever  lamblike?"  asked  Anne  doubt- 
fully. 

Richard  laughed.  "It's  their  chief  characteristic, 
of  course!  They  look  it,  don't  they?  We'll  get 
another  for  Sabina  and  she  shall  come  too. " 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  is  it  me,  sir?  Indeed  I  will  not, " 
cried  Sabina.  "Safe  in  a  decent  respectable  house  I 
will  stay,  and  you  and  the  mistress  can  have  what 
kimeens  you  like.  Is  it  a  camel  for  the  likes  of  me? 
I  thought  better  of  you,  Mr.  Richard,  sir. " 

"We're  a  disappointing  lot,  I'm  afraid,  Sabina." 
He  glanced  towards  Anne  as  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  well,  you're  as  the  Lord  made  you,  sir,  and 
'tis  the  way  we  have  to  put  up  with  what  we've  got, " 
said  Sabina,  who  was  a  little  tired  and  consequently 
rather  cross. 

Richard  laughed  again.  "  I  don't  think  the  vainest 
person  could  extract  a  compliment  out  of  that. 
Whenever  I  am  feeling  particularly  pleased  with 
myself  I'll  come  to  you  for  a  wholesome  corrective. " 

"Compliments  cost  nothing,  yet  many  pays  dear 
for  them,  Mr.  Richard,  sir." 

"You  agree  with  the  proverb  that '  Fair  words  please 
a  fool,'  Sabina " 

"Finish  it,  Ricky — 'and  sometimes  a  wise  man.* 
Sabina  goes  on  the  principle  of  the  first  half  of  the 
proverb.     That  is  how  she  brought  me  up, "  said  Anne. 


Silvery  Fairness  361 

"  I  don't  think  that  we  shall  ever  get  conceited  as  long 
as  we  have  Sabina  to  keep  us  in  order. " 

"And  a  good  thing,  too, "  said  Sabina  sturdily,  not- 
ing out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  the  instinctive  appeal 
of  Anne's  movement  towards  her  husband. 

Richard  noted  it  too,  snatching  joyfully  at  the 
hint  of  permanence,  of  ordered  family  life  in  the  little 
speech. 

"I  know  a  very  unwise  man  who  is  more  than 
grateful  for — crumbs,"  he  murmured  for  her  ear  alone. 

Anne  smiled  at  him.  There  was  something  ques- 
tioning in  her  glance. 

"Poor  unwise  man!"  she  answered  lightly,  though 
her  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  she  thought  he  must  hear 
it.  "Perhaps  a  more  liberal  diet  would  disagree  with 
him." 

"I  don't  think  so.  Sometimes  he's — starving, 
Anne." 

"Then  certainly  a  surfeit  would  be  bad  for  him. " 

"There's  a  happy  medium  between  starvation  and 
satiety. " 

"  I  didn't  think  you  cared  for  happy  mediums. " 

"I  don't,  either,"  he  answered,  with  an  unexpected 
fierceness.  "I  want  all,  or  nothing.  You're  right. 
I  am  no  lover  of  the  golden  mean. " 

Here,  to  Anne's  wonder  was  a  gleam  of  the  old  un- 
forgotten  flame.  She  felt  half-exultant,  half-fright- 
ened. Was  this  merely  passion,  errant  and  fleeting, 
or  was  it,  could  it  be  the  real  thing? 

Silenced  by  his  words,  for  which  she  had  no  answer 
ready,  they  walked  past  the  red  and  cream  striped  wall 
of  a  mosque,  whose  fretted  minaret  seemed  to  soar 
upwards  into  the  vivid  blue  of  the  sky. 


362  Drifting  Waters 

Suddenly  from  its  carved  balcony  sounded  the  voice 
of  the  muezzin  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer.  It  was  a 
strong  voice,  harsh  on  the  higher  notes  of  the  wailing 
chant  with  its  Eastern  dissonances,  rising  and  falling  as 
the  white-robed  figure  approached  or  receded  in  his 
march  round  the  balcony,  ringing  insistently  above  the 
noises  of  the  town. 

They  stopped  instinctively  to  listen.  When  the 
strange  chant  had  died  into  silence  Anne's  eyes  sought 
her  husband's  face.  No  flame  was  to  be  seen  therein. 
She  wondered  if  she  had  imagined  it.  He  looked  a 
little  white  in  the  slanting  sunlight,  and  his  lips  were 
firmly  set. 

"It  calls  to  something  here,"  she  said,  touching  her 
breast  lightly. 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I  know.  It  links  one  with  the 
past,  somehow — gives  one  a  sense  of  the  continuity  of 
the  centuries.  Do  you  know  that  they  generally 
choose  a  blind  man  as  muezzin?"  he  went  on,  in  a 
lighter  tone. 

"No.     Why?" 

"For  fear  that  from  his  lofty  eminence  he  might 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  women  taking  an  airing  on  the 
flat  roofs  of  their  houses. " 

"And  beauties  they  are  to  be  looking  at,"  put  in 
Sabina,  "  to  judge  by  them  I've  seen.  They  do  well  in- 
deed to  put  a  blind  man  up  there !  The  eyesight  would 
be  taken  out  of  another  looking  at  their  ugly  faces." 

"Then  you  don't  believe  in  the  Mohammedan 
houris,  Sabina?"  said  Richard,  amused. 

"I  believe  in  the  Mohammedan  hussies,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, that  cover  their  faces,  maybe,  but  are  content  to 
leave  the  rest  of  theirselves  bare!" 


Silvery  Fairness  363 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  your  ancestress  Mrs. 
Grundy?" 

"I  have  not,  sir,  and  what's  more  I  don't  believe 
she  was  any  relation  of  mine. " 

"The  family  resemblance  is  striking, "  said  Richard. 

His  eyes  met  Anne's.     They  laughed. 

Ill 

"  Up  above  the  world  so  high 
Like  a  tea-tray  in  the  sky! 

That's  how  I  feel,  Ricky!" 

Anne  looked  from  the  unsteady  eminence  of  her 
camel's  back  across  at  Richard,  who  seemed  exasper- 
atingly  at  home  on  Zobeida,  with  his  legs  crossed  in 
native  fashion.  The  peaks  of  his  saddle  shone  like 
burnished  gold.  The  crimson  trappings  glowed 
against  Zobeida's  cream  flanks.  The  tufts  of  ostrich 
feather  and  the  woollen  balls  swayed  as  she  turned  her 
long  white  neck  gently  from  side  to  side. 

Anne's  steed  was  of  far  inferior  quality;  sandy- 
brown  in  colour,  with  a  red-humped  native  saddle  and 
strings  of  shells  and  blue  beads  and  a  network  of  brown 
and  white  wool  for  adornment — humble  as  a  cart- 
horse in  comparison  with  the  pure-bred  Zobeida. 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  look  like  a  tea-tray, "  answered 
Richard.  "  It's  a  type  I  don't  admire.  What  do  you 
think,  Sabina?" 

Sabina  stood  on  the  steps  to  watch  their  outlandish 
departure. 

"What  do  I  think  about  what,  sir?" 

Richard  amended  his  question.  He  was  filled  with 
a  schoolboy  zest  at  the  thought  of  his  outing. 


364  Drifting  Waters 

"  Do  you  think  the  mistress  looks  like  a  tea-tray?" 
he  asked  mischievously. 

"Lord  love  you,  Mr.  Richard,  and  send  you  sense! 
A  tea-tray  indeed !     What  next?" 

"I  feel  very  insecure,  whatever  I  may  look,"  said 
Anne  ruefully.  "Ricky,  this  thing  has  only  got  one 
rein.     How  am  I  to  guide  it  ? " 

"Tap  it  on  the  neck  with  the  handle  of  your 
parasol. " 

"  Oh, "  breathed  Anne.  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  like 
camel-riding  at  all. " 

"You  will  when  you  get  used  to  the  motion.  Sway 
with  the  beast.  Don't  resist.  Cross  your  feet  firmly 
round  the  hump.     You  can't  fall  off. " 

"That's  a  doubtful  consolation. " 

"Why?  Do  you  want  to  fall  off?  Are  you  really 
frightened,  Anne?  If  you  have  the  slightest  qualms, 
dear,  we  shall  send  away  the  camels  and  get  Khalil 
to  order  an  arabiyeh.  I  want  you  to  enjoy  this 
excursion." 

"I'm  sure  I'll  love  it,"  cried  Anne  hastily,  stifling 
her  tremors.  "It's  a  new  experience.  I'm  going 
to  enjoy  it  hugely.  The  camel-boy  will  keep  close 
to  us,  won't  he?" 

"Yes.  He  shall  run  alongside  if  you  like.  Mah- 
mud? "  He  called  the  boy,  and  gave  him  instructions. 
"Now  we  had  better  be  off.  We  shall  be  back  to  tea 
if  we're  not  captured  by  brigands,  Sabina. " 

"The  Lord  forbid,  sir  and  ma'am!"  cried  Sabina 
after  them,  watching  the  unwieldy  animals  lurching 
down  the  pathway. 

As  Anne  grew  used  to  the  ambling  gait  her  spirits 
rose.     The   Song  of   the   Sakkiyehs  came   to   them 


Silvery  Fairness  365 

through  the  palm-grove.  There  was  a  murmurous 
sleepy  sound  about  it  today.  It  hummed  drowsily 
as  a  bee.  High  overhead  a  kite  wheeled,  screaming. 
A  flock  of  pigeons  rose  from  Moussa  Bey's  garden  as 
they  passed,  making  a  flurry  of  white  and  brown  and 
grey  wings  against  the  blue,  with  a  flash  of  pearly 
breasts  as  they  circled  back  again. 

Presently  they  turned  into  a  bare  dusty  road  which 
looked  almost  blinding  in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  It 
wound  forlornly  through  a  deserted  burial-ground. 
All  was  barren,  arid,  depressing.  Broken  mud-brick 
tombs,  crumbling  apart,  lay  on  either  side.  Through 
the  light  brown  rubble  bones  protruded  whitely,  here 
a  gleaming  skull,  there  a  thigh-bone,  farther  on  the 
pale  curve  of  a  rib. 

Yellow  pariah  dogs  prowled  through  this  city  of  the 
forgotten  dead,  snarling  viciously  from  behind  the 
tumbled  heaps. 

Anne  shivered.  Coming  from  the  shade  and  the 
sound  of  running  water  as  she  did  this  vision  of 
desolation  seemed  doubly  hideous. 

"Ricky,  why  did  you  bring  me  to  this  horrible 
place?"  she  asked,  shuddering. 

"  Dear,  I  couldn't  help  it.  There  is  no  other  way  to 
reach  the  water-meadows,"  he  answered.  "We  shall 
have  passed  through  it  in  a  moment. " 

Her  quick  mind  sprang  to  an  analogy.  Had  not  one 
always  to  go  through  desolate  places  to  reach  the 
green  pastures  and  the  running  waters?  Was  it 
not  emblematic,  prophetic  even?  Her  spirits  rose 
again. 

"I  am  glad  that  I'm  out  of  reach  of  those  dogs,  at 
any  rate, "  she  said,  as  one,  bolder  than  the  rest,  sprang 


366  Drifting  Waters 

towards  them  from  behind  a  heap  of  bricks,  barking 
and  baring  vicious  teeth. 

Mahmud,  the  camel-boy,  picked  up  a  clod  of  earth 
and  flung  it  at  the  beast,  which  yelped  before  it  was 
touched  and  fled  snarling  back  to  shelter. 

"They  are  savage  beasts,  but  cowardly,"  Richard 
said.  "The  Arabs  have  a  saying  ' He  is  like  a  dog  on 
a  mound*  when  they  wish  to  express  that  any  one  is 
in  a  dismal  condition.  When  these  wretched  pariahs 
fall  on  evil  days  and  are  no  longer  able  to  defend 
themselves  it  is  on  these  mounds,  among  these  deserted 
graveyards,  that  they  seek  shelter. " 

"How  do  they  manage  to  live?" 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Better  not  ask,  perhaps.  Now  look  round  you. 
We've  left  the  dismals  behind." 

The  country  suddenly  dipped  into  a  hollow  beneath 
them,  spanned  by  a  rough  wooden  bridge.  Along  the 
centre  of  the  valley  were  heaps  of  earth,  rudely  piled 
at  even  distances  from  one  another. 

"This  is  my  jumping-ground, "  said  Richard,  laugh- 
ing. "  I  had  these  primitive  obstacles  put  up  here  for 
Zobeida's  benefit.     Watch  her  take  them. " 

Anne  tried  to  rein  in  her  camel  on  the  bridge,  but 
her  efforts  were  fruitless  until  Mahmud  seized  the 
rein,  and  with  a  tap  on  its  nose  and  several  guttural 
words  of  command  forced  the  beast  to  stand  still. 

When  Richard  saw  that  she  was  at  ease  he  turned 
Zobeida  down  the  bank  by  the  bridge.  Her  great 
pads  slid  in  the  loose  earth,  but  she  pulled  herself 
together  when  they  reached  the  bottom.  He  touched 
her  neck  with  his  riding-switch,  and  she  set  off  towards 
the  jumps  at  a  swift  loping  gait.     Anne  caught  her 


Silvery  Fairness  367 

breath  as  she  saw  her  lift  all  four  feet  off  the  ground 
and  clear  the  first  obstacle,  then  canter  at  the  same  even 
pace  towards  the  next.  It  was  a  funny  sight,  rather 
a  hop  than  a  jump,  and  the  effect  was  even  odder 
when  Richard  turned  and  faced  her  coming  back. 

Mahmud  squatted  on  the  ground,  his  black  eyes  al- 
most darting  out  of  his  head  with  surprise  and  delight. 
Never  had  he  seen  such  a  sight  in  his  young  life.  He 
had  heard  of  it  from  Hassan  and  Ibrahim,  the  Hakim 
Effendi's  camel-boy,  but  never  before  had  he  beheld 
the  sight  of  a  camel  jtunping.  Truly  the  Inglesi  were 
a  wonderful  people,  if  a  little  mad. 

Richard  clambered  up  the  bank  and  waved  his 
helmet  at  Anne. 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it  ? "  he  asked.  "  Isn't 
she  a  daisy  to  jimip?" 

He  had  the  look  of  one  who  conquers.  Anne  liked 
it.     Something  within  her  rose  to  meet  it. 

"It's  really  marvellous,"  she  answered.  "I  don't 
know  how  you  achieved  it. " 

"  Oh,  it  was  easy  enough,"  he  said,  tickling  Zobeida's 
neck  with  his  switch.  "But  I  believe  it  has  added 
more  to  my  reputation  as  a  doctor  than  any  skill  with 
powder  or  potion.     It  was  a  lucky  trick  for  me. " 

"Why  will  you  always  belittle  yourself?"  she  asked, 
with  sudden  heat. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Because  nobody  knows  better  than  I  do  how  empty 
the  vessel  is, "  he  returned  after  a  moment. 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Ricky,"  she  cried,  quite  sharply. 
"You  do  annoy  me." 

"Do  I?  I'm  sorry,"  he  answered  meekly,  while  a 
smile  curled  his  lips. 


368  Drifting  Waters 

The  sharpness  held  no  sting  for  him.  He  knew  how 
to  read  it  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

They  breasted  the  slope  in  silence  and  paused  on  its 
crest. 

Below  them  was  the  water  again,  tumbling  and 
laughing  as  it  leaped  down  shelving  walls  of  land; 
bubbling  round  boulders,  falling  towards  the  little 
square  stone  water-mills  which  were  built  across  the 
running  stream,  one  below  the  other,  as  the  valley 
dipped  on  different  levels  towards  a  green  field. 

Richard  pointed  with  his  switch. 

"Now  did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  would  bring  you  to 
green  fields?  A  grassy  field  and  a  running  rush- 
bordered  brook  in  Egypt!  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
such  wonders?" 

Anne  was  too  new  to  the  country  to  realize  what 
magic  and  delight  such  words  could  convey.  The 
grass  was  sparser  and  less  vivid  than  English  grass, 
but  it  was  the  real  thing.  Rushes  fringed  the  edges  of 
the  laughing  water  as  they  might  fringe  a  streamlet  at 
Trent.  It  was  very  unexpected,  very  refreshing,  after 
the  arid  vision  of  the  graveyard  and  the  snarling  dogs. 

Richard  called  to  Mahmud,  who  with  grunts  and 
clucks  made  the  camels  lie  down.  Anne  disliked  the 
violent  jerking  process.  Everything  swam  before  her 
for  a  moment  as  Richard  lifted  her  off  the  saddle  and 
she  swayed  against  him.  For  a  second  her  head  rested 
above  his  heart.  She  felt  its  great  panting  throbs,  as 
of  some  mighty  untameable  force  trying  to  beat  its 
way  out. 

She  started  back  in  alarm. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  cried,  without  thinking. 

Richard  gave  a  curious  dry  little  laugh. 


Silvery  Fairness  369 

"That's  what  happens  when  you  touch  me.  That's 
all!" 

"I — I  don't  understand,"  she  faltered. 

"Perhaps  it's  as  well,"  he  answered  drily.  "Shall 
we  walk  down  to  the  stream  and  sit  beside  it  for 
awhile?  Then  we  can  go  into  the  mills.  I  know 
some  of  the  people  here,  and  can  talk  to  them  a  little 
in  my  halting  Arabic. " 

"Very  well,"  she  replied,  following  him,  wondering 
at,  yet  half  resenting  his  sudden  change  of  tone. 

They  skirted  the  mills  and  wandered  down  to  the 
green  field. 

Silence  smote  them  as  they  sat  side  by  side  on  the 
grass  and  watched  purple-winged  swallows  darting 
across  the  water.  It  was  very  still,  very  peaceful, 
and  gradually  the  disturbance  in  each  quieted 
down. 

"What  do  they  grind  in  these  mills?"  asked  Anne 
at  last,  in  a  determinedly  ordinary  voice. 

Richard  laughed. 

"You  needn't  bother  to  make  polite  conversation, 
Anne,"  he  said.  "Surely  we  know  each  other  well 
enough  to  be  able  to  sit  silent  if  we  choose. " 

"Do  we?  I  wonder?"  mused  Anne.  "If  that  is 
the  case  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  our  silences  are 
often  so — ^un comfortable. " 

"Are  they?  It  must  be  owing  to  your  evil 
conscience,  then,"  he  answered  lightly. 

"Is  your  conscience  crystal  clear?"  asked  Anne 
very  low. 

Richard  shot  a  swift  glance  at  her. 

"Crystal  is  dull  in  comparison  with  it,"  he  said, 
and  laughed. 
24 


370  Drifting  Waters 

"I'm  glad  you're  satisfied,"  she  said,  turning  her 
head  away. 

"Which  means  that  you  are  not.  Oh,  Shades  of 
CEdipus,  let  me  burn  incense  to  thy  Manes!  When  I 
show  commendable  self-knowledge  she  doesn't  like  it. 
When  I  proclaim  my  crystallinity  of  conscience  she 
doesn't  like  it  either.  What  am  I  to  do  to  please 
this  capricious  Elfin  Princess?" 

No  beneficent  spirit  whispered  to  him  that  this  was 
the  moment  to  master  her,  to  tell  her  once  for  all  that 
he  loved  her,  to  take  her  proud  spirit  by  storm,  to  let 
her  see  that  he  was  her  man,  her  mate.  The  Arab 
proverb  was  firmly  embedded  in  his  mind:  "There  is 
a  remedy  for  everything  in  patience,  but  for  lack  of 
patience  there  is  no  remedy. "  He  did  not  realize  that 
sometimes  patience  may  be  a  fatal  policy  in  the  way 
of  a  man  with  a  maid. 

Anne  laughed,  half  reluctantly.  She  saw  that  he 
was  determined  to  keep  their  conversation  at  holiday 
level,  and  with  an  effort  she  tried  to  fit  herself  to  what 
she  imagined  his  mood  to  be. 

"If  you  want  to  please  me  you  will  tell  me  what  they 
grind  in  those  little  mills, "  she  answered. 

"What  an  easy  task!"  he  cried,  lying  back  on  the 
grass,  and  pulling  his  helmet  over  his  face  to  shield  it 
from  the  sun. 

Under  the  curve  of  its  brim  he  could  see  her  slim 
gracious  profile  against  the  sky,  her  proud  little  head 
with  its  clearly  cut  chin  and  tilted  nose.  A  fold  of 
her  skirt  brushed  against  his  knee.  He  put  one  hand 
out  and  touched  it. 

"They  grind  maize  and  millet  in  those  little  mills, " 
he  went  on  in  tones  of  lazy  contentment.     "During 


Silvery  Fairness  371 

the  past  few  weeks  the  crops  have  been  cut  and  har- 
vested. The  grain  is  laid  upon  the  ground  in  squares 
of  brown  cones  or  cream  cylinders,  sheltered  by  low 
palisades  made  of  the  dry  maize-stalks  and  leaves. 
Then  come  men  with  blue  or  white  garments  girt 
above  their  bare  bronze  legs  and  beat  the  heaps  with 
flails  until  all  the  grain  is  separated  from  the  pods. 
Now  it  is  the  women's  turn.  They  carry  the  grain 
in  great  basketfuls  on  their  heads  to  these  little  grey 
mills  to  be  ground  into  the  finest  white  or  brown  flour. 
That  is  the  secret  of  this  smiling  valley,  Anne,  another 
echo  of  the  Song  of  Fertility:  the  little  mills  grinding 
flour  for  the  daily  bread  of  those  who  till  the  land  to 
make  it  bear  the  com.  So  life  goes  on  in  the  circle 
that  is  Eternity. " 

"I  see,"  answered  Anne  softly,  her  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees.  "More  of  the  continuity  of  the 
centuries,  as  you  call  it." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  laughing,  bubbling  water, 
which  was  bridged  here  and  there  by  great  flat 
stones. 

She  rose  suddenly.  "I  want  to  sit  on  one  of  those 
stones  and  listen  to  the  water, "  she  said.  "Whenever 
I  see  water  I  feel  that  I  can  never  get  near  enough  to  it. 
It  seems  to  have  something  special  to  say  to  me,  some- 
thing which  I  never  can  quite  understand.  Once  in 
a  way  I  seem  almost  to  grasp  it,  but  then  it  eludes  me 
again.  It's  as  hieroglyphic  as  the  prints  on  the  sand 
the  other  day." 

"And  has  the  same  meaning,  if  we  could  only  read 
it,"  he  said. 

"Running  water,  dripping  water — it's  like  a  crystal 
flute, "  she  went  on,  as  if  to  herself.     "Even  the  cistern 


372  Drifting  Waters 

at  Caroline  Place  used  to  tinkle  like  fairy  music  some- 
times, and  my  little  laurel-leaf  runlet  at  Trent — do 
you  remember?" 

"Yes.     I  remember. " 

"I  wonder  why  it  should  fascinate  me  so  much.  I 
suppose  it's  because  of  my  Finnish  ancestress,  Hildis 
Taron.  Do  you  know,  there's  something  like  the 
sound  of  dropping  water  in  her  very  name,  isn't 
there?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  again.  "Something  cool  and  clear. 
I  expect  the  real  reason  is  that  you  were  a  naiad  before 
you  became  an  Elfin  Princess.  Perhaps  you  are  a 
reincarnation  of  Hildis  Taron  herself!" 

"No,  no,  no,"  cried  Anne,  with  a  gesture  as  if  she 
were  pushing  something  from  her.  "I  am  myself. 
Let  me  be  myself. " 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  to  turn  you  into 
any  one  else, "  he  said. 

She  walked  down  the  slope  towards  the  stream  and 
stood  on  one  of  the  flat  stones  beneath  the  lowest  of  the 
mills,  looking  at  the  water  that  rushed  below  it. 

Then  she  knelt  for  awhile  peering  downwards. 

Her  poise  reminded  Richard  of  a  picture  he  had  once 
seen  of  a  wood-nymph  gazing  at  herself  in  a  forest  pool. 
She  stayed  so  long  and  remained  so  motionless  that 
he  began  to  wonder  if  she  were  being  hypnotised  by 
the  incessant  flow;  if  in  a  moment  he  should  see  her 
topple  and  fall  forward.  Fear  held  him  as  this  idea 
came  to  him  unbidden.  He  did  not  want  to  intrude 
on  her  mood,  but  the  pricking  thought  made  him 
uneasy. 

He  sat  up,  preparing  to  call  to  her,  when  with  a  little 
sigh  she  straightened  herself  and  rose. 


Silvery  Fairness  373 

"Well,"  she  said,  as  she  came  towards  him,  "that 
wasn't  an  uncomfortable  silence,  was  it?" 

"  It's  not  quite  a  fair  test, "  he  returned  drily,  feeling 
a  little  ruffled  now  that  his  mind  was  at  ease.  "I 
could  not  have  conversed  with  you  unless  I  had 
shouted  at  the  top  of  my  voice. " 

"Couldn't  you?"  said  Anne.  "Suppose  we  see  the 
mills  now  that  I'm  up.  I  don't  think  that  this  is  the 
psychological  moment  for  silence-tests,  do  you?" 

"No, "  he  said  shortly.  Then  he  laughed.  "Anne, 
how  old  are  we?" 

"How  old  are  you,  you  mean?"  she  retorted.  "I 
am  quite  a  reasonable  being. " 

"Are  you?  I  doubt  it, "  he  said.  "Do  you  know 
that  sometimes  I'd  like  to  shake  you?" 

"And  sometimes  I'd  like  to  shake  you,"  she  an- 
swered quickly.     "So  we're  quits !     Do  we  go  in  here?  " 

She  paused  outside  one  of  the  little  mills. 

"Yes,"  said  Richard. 

They  entered.  The  square,  low  room  was  full  of 
people,  and  was  unlighted  save  for  the  patch  of  dust- 
filled  sunshine  which  poured  through  the  aperture  of 
the  door.  The  place  seemed  dusky  and  remote  after 
the  clear  light  outside,  but  presently  Anne  discerned 
figures. 

The  hum  of  voices  ceased  at  their  entrance,  but 
from  beneath  their  feet  rose  the  song  of  the  stream  as 
it  turned  the  great  grindstone,  before  which  sat  a 
black-robed  girl  with  a  gold  nose-ring,  who  swept  up 
the  flour  with  a  small  bunch  of  twigs  as  it  trickled 
from  beneath  the  stone  in  a  fine  cream  shower. 

Near  her  sat  a  grey-bearded  man  of  patriarchal  type 
to   whom   Richard   spoke.     Beside   him  squatted   a 


374  Drifting  Waters 

leathery  brown  old  woman,  who  was  spreading  out  on 
the  floor  a  red  cotton  rag  heaped  with  eggs. 

Another  with  a  basket  of  flat  cakes  on  her  head 
peered  in  at  the  doorway,  blocking  the  light  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  a  third  went  out  with  her  burden  of 
newly-ground  flour,  which  she  would  store  in  the  mud 
bin  plastered  against  her  hut  like  a  swallow's  nest.  A 
tiny  girl  in  a  pink-striped  robe  and  a  wisp  of  red  head- 
shawl  clung  to  her  skirts  and  peeped  furtively  at 
Anne.  All  the  women  wore  the  same  scanty  garment 
dyed  with  indigo.  The  face  of  each  was  disfigured 
with  blue  tattoo-marks  on  cheek  and  chin,  while  each 
brown  right  nostril  bore  the  curious  nose-ring  of  the 
Fayiim — a  circle  of  twisted  gold  wire  with  a  little 
filigree  bar  from  which  hung  a  tiny  gold  coin  at  one 
side.  Women  and  girls  alike  wore  many  glass  bangles, 
which  tinkled  faintly  as  they  went,  and  chains  of  vivid 
blue,  red,  green,  or  yellow  beads  about  their  bare 
brown  throats. 

Some  of  them  softly  stroked  Anne's  sleeve  as  she 
passed  them,  murmuring: 

"Kweis,  kweis,  ya  sitt!" 

Anne  did  not  understand,  but  was  conscious  of  kindly 
intent.     Lively  curiosity  shone  in  their  dark  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  throng  of  humanity,  the  dry,  dusty 
smell  of  the  flour,  the  sense  of  enclosiire  became  op- 
pressive to  her. 

She  touched  Richard's  arm. 

"It's  very  hot  in  here.     Let  us  get  out. " 

"By  all  means."  He  turned  to  the  old  man  for  a 
final  salutation,  and  convoyed  Anne  to  the  outer  air. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief;  then  gave  a  sudden 
exclamation. 


Silvery  Fairness  375 

"Ricky!  Look!  There  is  an  arabtyeh  on  the  slope 
near  our  camels. " 

' '  An  arabtyeh  here  ?  Impossible.  But  you're  right, 
Anne.  The  impossible  has  happened.  It  is  an 
arabiyeh." 

"Of  course  it's  an  arabtyeh,  and  there  are  two  women 
in  it.  Who  can  they  be?  Why,  one  of  them  is 
waving,  Ricky.     The  plot  thickens." 

She  turned  to  look  at  him.  He  was  smiling  and 
waving  his  helmet  in  return. 

"How  splendid!"  he  cried.  "It's  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
and  Miss  Bagot.  The  conventions  are  saved,  Anne. 
She  must  have  been  to  call  on  you.  Deceitful 
creature!  She  never  even  hinted  at  such  a  thing 
yesterday." 

His  whole  bearing  had  changed.  He  seemed 
charged  with  new  life.  Anne's  heart  sank  unreason- 
ably as  she  followed  him  up  the  slope,  dragging  behind 
his  springing  gait  with  feet  that  seemed  to  be  made 
of  lead. 

IV 

Mrs.  D'Esterre  was,  as  Richard  had  said,  exquisitely 
fair,  even  to  Anne's  prejudiced  eyes.  In  the  clear 
whiteness  of  her  face  her  curved  lips  showed  softly 
red  as  berries  upon  snow.  Her  eyes  were  blue-grey  as 
northern  pools.  There  was  a  fascinating  dimple  on 
the  left  side  of  her  chin.  One  watched  for  it  to  come 
and  go  as  she  spoke  or  smiled.  One  delicate  eyebrow 
tilted  provocatively.  Whatever  her  appearance  may 
have  owed  to  art  was  the  work  of  an  artist. 

Anne  felt  hot  and  dishevelled  as  she  looked  at  the 
perfect  finish  of  the  other  woman. 


376  Drifting  Waters 

Mrs.  D'Esterre  held  her  hand  and  poured  forth  a 
torrent  of  speech  in  a  delightful  voice  with  a  fascinat- 
ing hint  of  accent:  "But  I  am  desolated,  dear  Mrs. 
Assheton,  that  I  could  not  come  to  see  you  sooner. 
This  ankle,  you  know,  wicked,  spiteful  thing,  sent  to 
punish  me  for  my  many  sins,  I  suppose. "  She  shot  a 
glance  at  Richard.  "But  for  your  husband's  care  and 
skill  I  might  have  been  lame  for  life.  Oh,  no,  you  need 
not  protest.  I  saw  how  angry  you  were  when  you 
found  that  I  had  tried  to  walk  on  it.  Dear  Mrs. 
Assheton,  he  also  saved  me  from  an  even  worse  fate 
than  that." 

"  I  am  glad, "  said  Anne,  feeling  schoolgirlish  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  "  I  had  not  heard.  He  did  not 
tell  me. " 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  know, "  laughed  Mrs.  D'Esterre. 
' '  I  will  tell  you  now.     It  was  from  dying  of  boredom ! " 

"What  a  terrible  fate!"  said  Richard.  "Did  it 
every  happen  to  anyone,  I  wonder?" 

"It  would  have  happened  to  me  if  Fate  had  with- 
held you  from  the  Fayiim,  mon  ami,"  she  cried,  with 
mock  solemnity.  Then  she  turned  again  to  Anne. 
"We  were  desolated  not  to  find  you  at  home.  It  is 
the  first  time  I  have  been  outside  the  Hotel  Moeris 
for  weeks." 

"How  did  you  get  to  the  carriage?"  asked  Richard. 
"You  know  I  told  you  that  you  must  not  walk  just 
yet." 

"  I  did  not  walk.  Pagani  carried  me.  I  was  afraid 
to  tell  you  yesterday  lest  you  should  forbid  me  to 
come!" 

"Then  it  was  a  regular  conspiracy,  aided  and 
abetted  by  you,  Miss  Bagot. " 


Silvery  Fairness  377 

"Yes,  aided  and  abetted  by  me,"  answered  the 
companion  in  clear,  well-bred  tones. 

She  was  a  plain  woman  of  sallow  complexion,  with 
bright,  observant  eyes  and  a  reserved  mouth.  She 
gave  Anne  the  impression  of  one  who  was  a  per- 
petual spectator,  and  she  felt  a  sudden  compassion 
for  her. 

"How  did  you  know  where  we  were?" 

"Your  man  told  us,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  coming  after  you. " 

"Temptations  such  as  those  were  meant  to  be 
yielded  to,"  said  Richard  lightly.  At  the  same 
moment  he  gave  Anne  a  significant  look. 

For  an  instant  his  meaning  eluded  her;  then  a  flash 
of  inspiration  came. 

' '  We  were  just  going  back  when  we  saw  you.  Won't 
you  come  too  and  have  tea  with  us?" 

"But  certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  was 
hoping  you  would  ask  me,"  said  "Mrs.  D'Esterre 
eagerly.  "Frankly,  I  almost  wept  when  I  found  that 
you  were  not  at  home,  did  I  not.  Baggy?" 

Miss  Bagot  gave  a  non-committal  smile. 

"  I  have  been  so  anxious  that  you  and  your  husband 
should  lunch  with  me,  Mrs.  Assheton,  but  of  course 
with  a  young  bride  les  convenances  must  be  observed, 
and  there  I  was!  Behold  me,  Andromeda  chained  to 
the  rock.  My  dragon ! "  She  indicated  Richard  with 
a  flick  of  her  little  finger,  and  the  dimple  sprang  into 
being. 

Anne  thought  that  she  had  never  before  heard  such 
an  odious  expression  as  "young  bride" — particularly 
in  its  personal  application  to  herself. 

"Disobedience  deserves  punishment,"  said  Richard 


378  Drifting  Waters 

smiling.  "  I  shall  send  your  tea  out  to  the  carriage  to 
you." 

"On  the  contrary  you  will  carry  me  into  your  wife's 
charming  drawing-room.  I  am  sure  it  is  charming. 
One  of  my  intuitions,"  she  flashed  at  Anne,  "I  am 
light  as  a  Httle  bird. " 

Anne  caught  a  look  of  hidden  amusement  in  Miss 
Bagot's  eyes,  which  flickered  out  as  quickly  as  it  had 
flickered  into  being. 

"I  think  we  had  better  start,"  she  said.  "You 
must  be  feeling  rather  tired  after  your  long  drive,  Mrs. 
D'Esterre,  and  then  you  have  to  face  the  drive  back 
again." 

"Lake  Karftn  will  seem  more  desolate  than  ever 
after  this,"  she  pouted. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  repeat  the  excursion, "  said  Anne, 
in  a  delicately  frosted  manner  that  reminded  Richard 
irresistibly  of  her  mother. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  get  back,  Mrs.  Assheton? 
You  walk,  no?" 

Anne  pointed  to  the  camels. 

"We  ride." 

"  Mon  dieu!''  exclaimed  Mrs.  D'Esterre.  " Camels ! 
What  courage!  I  have  seen  your  husband  on  his, 
but  you !     What  it  is  to  be  English ! ' 

Mrs.  D'Esterre's  compliments  seemed  to  be  tinged 
with  a  sprightly  malice  which  roused  a  prickly  sensa- 
tion of  resentment  in  Anne.  She  walked  towards  the 
recumbent  camels,  followed,  somewhat  reluctantly  it 
seemed,  by  Richard,  who  helped  her  on  to  the  saddle. 
Then  came  the  duckings  and  adjurations,  the  violent 
jerkings  to  and  fro  as  the  camels  rose  in  awkward 
sections  and  Anne  once  more  surveyed  the  surround- 


Silvery  Fairness  379 

ing  scene  from  a  height.  She  looked  towards  the 
happy  valley  with  its  green  grass  and  bubbling  water, 
its  little  grey  mills  and  ebb  and  flow  of  rural  life,  and 
thought  how  suddenly  remote  it  seemed,  and  what  a 
rare  and  curious  hour  of  happiness  it  had  held  for  her. 
The  Blue  Bird  had  fluttered  almost  within  reach. 
Now,  without  warning,  she  seemed  to  catch  the  dis- 
appearing gleam  of  a  sapphire  wing. 

Mrs.  D'Esterre's  horses  did  not  appreciate  the 
presence  of  the  camels.  One  reared  as  Zobeida's  long 
neck  darted  in  front  of  him. 

" Mon  dieuf  I  am  terrified,"  cried  Mrs.  D'Esterre. 
"Please  ride  on  before  us  and  we  shall  follow  quietly. 
Four-footed  beasts  were  invented  solely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  alarming  me,  I  am  sure. " 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  ride  on,  Anne,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "We  shall  then  be  ready  to  receive  our  guests 
and  to  see  that  Khalil  has  made  proper  preparation 
for  them. " 

"I  desire  to  wash  my  face  and  brush  my  hair  more 
than  anything,"  said  Anne,  swaying  nervously  as 
her  camel  started  to  trot  after  Zobeida.  "  I  feel 
dishevelled. " 

"Oh,  you  look  quite  all  right, "  he  answered. 

She  stifled  a  desire  to  laugh  hysterically. 

"Oh,  Ricky,  what  a  husbandly  way  to  speak  to  a 
young  bride!  You  mustn't  forget  your  role  so  com- 
pletely, "  she  cried  with  a  tinge  of  bitterness. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Anger  and  amaze- 
ment smouldered  in  his  blue  eyes.  Then  he  gave 
Zobeida's  flank  a  cut  with  his  switch  and  she  started 
off  at  a  stride  which  devoured  distance.  When  Anne 
came  in  sight  of  the  valley  with  the  bridge  she  saw  him 


38o  Drifting  Waters 

returning  from  its  farther  end,  encouraging  Zobeida 
over  the  jumps.  She  did  not  draw  rein,  but  he  over- 
took her  a  moment  later  on  the  road  that  led  through 
the  sun-bleached  burial-ground.  She  kept  her  head 
turned  away. 

"You're  getting  on  grandly,"  he  remarked  in  a 
friendly  tone.  "You  must  try  Zobeida  another  time. " 

"Thank  you,  but  I've  no  desire  to  do  so.  I  don't 
think  that  camel-riding  is  my  forte, "  she  said,  looking 
at  the  desolate  mounds. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  be  cheap  and  nasty,  Anne,"  he 
cried  with  some  heat.  "You  boasted  a  little  while 
ago  that  you  were  a  reasonable  being.  It  seems  to  be 
an  assertion  that  wants  some  proving. " 

Anna  bit  her  lip.  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat  and 
prevented  her  from  answering.  She  rode  on  in 
silence. 

As  they  neared  the  town  the  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs 
came  towards  them.  Its  character  had  changed  since 
last  they  had  heard  it.  It  now  rose  to  a  shrill  whine 
and  fell  to  a  murmuring  grumble. 

A  sudden  wind  had  sprung  up  that  swayed  the 
crested  heads  of  the  palm-trees,  and  fluttered  the  torn 
strips  of  the  banana  leaves.  It  raised  little  whirls 
and  eddies  of  dust  in  the  road. 

Richard  leant  towards  Anne  and  whistled  the 
"White  Chip"  motif. 

"Anne!"  he  said  softly,  trying  to  peer  beneath  her 
hat. 

Anne  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  white-gloved  hands 
that  held  rein  and  parasol. 

He  whistled  it  again,  and  looked  at  her. 

At  last  she  turned  towards  him. 


Silvery  Fairness  381 

"Oh,  Ricky,  don't  be  ridiculous,"  she  said,  half- 
laughing,  half-rueful;  but  there  was  surrender  in  her 
tone,  and  he  knew  it. 


It  gave  her  a  pang  to  see  Mrs.  D'Esterre  in  his  arms 
— a  pang  that  tore  and  rent  her  new-found  calm  to 
tatters.  She  had  thought  that  all  such  feelings  were 
buried  under  the  long  shed  days  of  Lilias  Damer  and 
Sister  Doris.  She  did  not  realize  even  yet  how  com- 
pletely she  was  her  own  Tree  of  Knowledge;  how  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  had  to  be  savoured,  no  matter  how 
bitter  it  might  be  or  of  whose  plucking. 

The  hand  that  held  the  teapot  shook  a  little  as 
Richard  put  his  joyous  burden  on  the  couch. 

"Now,  am  I  not  light  as  a  little  bird?"  she 
demanded,   looking  up   at  him. 

"Ethereal  as  thistledown,"  he  returned  in  the  same 
tone. 

"Ah,  mon  ami,  what  a  loss  the  diplomatic  service 
has  had  in  you ! "  she  cried.  "  I  am  but  too  well  aware 
that  I  weigh  eight  of  your  English  stones." 

"You  don't  feel  like  it." 

"Perhaps  it  is  my  badness  that  makes  me  so  light, 
hein?'' 

"Your  goodness,  rather,"  smiled  Richard. 

"No,  no,  mon  ami.  Goodness  is  a  very  heavy  qual- 
ity, n' est-ce-pas?  But  I  shock  Mrs.  Assheton.  My 
badness  is  like  froth,  all  on  the  surface,  easily  to  be 
seen.     I  am  not  really  dangerous. " 

"No?"  said  Anne.  "I  am  sure  you  underrate 
yourself,  Mrs.  D'Esterre.     Cream  and  sugar?" 


382  Drifting  Waters 

"Neither,  thanks.     A  slice  of  lemon,  if  I  may." 

Anne  rang  and  ordered  lemons. 

"And  you,  Miss  Bagot?"  She  turned  to  the 
companion  who  sat  near  her. 

"All  the  stereotyped  adjuncts,  please,"  Miss  Bagot 
answered,  in  the  voice  that  always  came  as  a  surprise 
until  the  novelty  of  its  incongruity  with  her  appear- 
ance had  worn  off. 

"  Dear  Baggy  is  so  comfortably  English  in  all  ways, " 
rippled  Mrs.  D'Esterre.  "She  is  as  a  rock  to  me, 
aren't  you.  Baggy?" 

Miss  Bagot  smiled. 

"And  you  are  French?  My  husband  has  told  me 
so, "  said  Anne,  speaking  in  that  tongue. 

"Yes,  I  am  French,  but  my  husband  was  English 
of  Huguenot  descent,  hence  my  name.  There  are 
D'Esterres  in  Devonshire,  I  believe,  but  I  have  never 
penetrated  into  those  wilds.  I  am  a  child  of  cities, 
of  sophistication,  rather  than  a  child  of  nature!  But, 
what  an  accent,  dear  Madame!  Parisian,  in  effect. 
You  have  studied  there,  no?" 

"I  have  never  been  in  Paris,  but  my  grandmother 
was  French,  and  I  have  always  spoken  and  loved  the 
language." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  good.     May  I  ask  her  name?" 

"Marguerite  de  Pascarel." 

"But  her  English  name?" 

"Oh,  Warrener, "  Anne  answered.  "Here  are  the 
lemons.  Richard,  will  you  see  that  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
has  her  tea  just  as  she  likes  it. " 

Richard  took  the  silver  tray  over  to  the  couch,  and 
with  much  laughter  and  badinage  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
initiated  him  into  the  mysteries  of  the  d  la  Russe, 


Silvery  Fairness  383 

"But  to  be  right  we  should  have  a  samovar  and  real 
Russian  tea.  This  is  only  a  makeshift,"  she  said, 
"and  makeshifts  are — well,  never  anything  more  than 
makeshifts. " 

"What  a  profound  truth!"  said  Richard,  glancing 
across  to  Anne. 

She  was  talking  to  Miss  Bagot,  and  apparently  did 
not  see  the  look,  nor  hear  the  profound  truth  with 
which  she  cordially  agreed. 

She  had  neither  the  experience  nor  the  insight  to 
realize  that  so  frankly  egotistic  a  woman  as  Liane 
D'Esterre  could  never  do  more  than  amuse  Richard. 
Her  very  transparent  coquetries  diverted  him,  and 
her  presence  eased  the  tension  of  his  relations  with 
Anne.  He  was  ready  for  thrust  and  parry,  for 
every  turn  of  mood,  and  he  was  amusedly  conscious, 
in  spite  of  the  provocative  glance  with  which  she  had 
accompanied  the  words,  that  he  himself  was  in  her 
eye  only  one  of  those  makeshifts  which  always  re- 
mained makeshifts  and  nothing  more. 

Anne  tried  to  ignore  the  gay  interchange  which  went 
on  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  while  she  talked  to 
Miss  Bagot,  but  every  fibre  of  her  being  was  conscious 
of  Richard's  pleasure,  of  his  quickened  interest.  He 
never  was  gay  and  lively  like  that  with  her !  She  did 
not  pause  to  consider  how  her  type  differed  from  that 
of  the  other  woman,  or  how  often  her  attitude  nipped 
any  imptdse  to  gaiety  in  the  bud. 

"You  like  Egypt?"  she  said  to  Miss  Bagot. 

"Yes,  fairly  well.  I  think  people  interest  me  more 
than  places,"  she  answered  unexpectedly.  "When 
one  lives  the  life  of  an  appendage,  as  I  do,  all  places 
seem  more  or  less  alien.     One  is  in  them  but  never 


384  Drifting  Waters 

of  them.  One  has  not  time.  At  least  that  is  my 
experience. " 

Anne  was  interested.  "Have  you  travelled  much, 
then?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  to  many  places  in  the  five  years 
I  have  been  with  Mrs.  D'Esterre. " 

"  One  can  see  a  good  deal  in  five  years. " 

"One  can,"  answered  Miss  Bagot,  and  Anne  felt 
that  more  was  hidden  in  the  words  than  a  mere 
commonplace  assent. 

" Did  you  travel  at  all  before  that? "  she  asked.  It 
was  difiicult  to  find  topics  of  conversation  with  a 
stranger,  so  she  spun  this  one  out  to  its  utmost  length. 

"I  did  a  tour  of  the  English  watering-places  with 
an  old  lady,  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  D'Esterre's  late  husband. 
Our  quest  was  an  amusing  one. " 

"What  was  it?" 

"No  more  and  no  less  than  the  Elixir  of  Youth," 
returned  Miss  Bagot,  with  that  fleeting  hint  of 
laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  quite  understand." 

"My  old  lady  was  seventy-nine.  We  sought  for 
doctors  and  waters  which  could  restore  strength  to  her 
poor  old  legs  and  vigour  to  her  withered  old  frame. 
Up  to  the  end  slie  quite  believed  that  she  would  find 
the  Phoenix." 

"Well,  she's  found  it  now,"  said  Anne  softly. 
"What  happened  then?" 

Miss  Bagot  looked  at  her  out  of  bright,  darting 
eyes. 

"Then  Mrs.  D'Esterre,  who  had  recently  lost  her 
husband,  was  looking  for  a  companion,  a  sheepdog, 
rather,  whose  worth  should  be  above  rubies." 


Silvery  Fairness  385 

"And  she  chose  you?" 

Miss  Bagot  smiled  an  inscrutable  smile. 

"Is  not  my  value  written  on  my  face — a  literal 
face-value?"  she  returned.  "I  am  of  uncertain  age, 
plain,  eminently  respectable,  yet  not  too  much  so 
to  be  dowdy.  I  am  quiet,  discreet,  have  an  admir- 
able speaking-voice.  I  can  read  beautifully.  Mrs. 
D'Esterre  likes  being  read  to  sleep.  I  write  an  excel- 
lent hand,  characteristic  without  being  eccentric. 
Can  you  doubt,  therefore,  that  my  price  is  above 
rubies?" 

"No,"  said  Anne,  feeling  vaguely  uncomfortable. 

"I  give  full  value  for  my  salary,"  Miss  Bagot  con- 
tinued. "The  life  of  an  appendage  is  not  an  easy  one. 
I  have  studied  it  closely.  I  am  now  such  an  expert 
that  I  can  nearly  always  go  on  a  little  in  advance  and 
pick  up  the  stones  and  cut  away  the  thorny  briers. " 

' '  Don't ! "  cried  Anne  impulsively.  ' '  Oh,  you  sound 
unhappy!  I  am  sorry."  She  stopped  abruptly  at 
the  other  woman's  stony  gaze. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Assheton,  what  have  I  said  to  create 
such  a  totally  false  impression?"  she  asked,  smiling 
with  her  lips  but  not  with  her  eyes.  "My  life  with 
Mrs.  D'Esterre  is  one  long  round  of  interest  and 
amusement.  I  am  never  dull,  never  bored.  I  rarely 
have  time  to  think.  I  never  have  space  to  feel.  Is 
it  not  an  ideal  condition?"  She  gave  an  odd  little 
laugh.  "I  am  not  usually  so  effusive,  believe  me. 
It  must  be  the  result  of  these  weeks  of  isolation  at 
Lake  Karfin.  You  see  the  parasite  must  have  some- 
thing to  cling  to.  It  cannot  stand  alone.  You  are  so 
simpatica,  your  surroundings  are  so  delightful  in  a 
healthy,  normal,  ordinary  way.     Your  life  is  so  per- 

2S 


386  Drifting  Waters 

fectly  ordered,  your  husband  so  clever,  so  charming — 
it  established  a  rapport  between  us  at  once,  did  it  not?  " 

Anne  could  have  laughed  at  her  choice  of  words — 
"healthy,  normal,  ordinary" — had  not  her  mind 
recoiled  from  the  suggestion  of  something  sinister  that 
lay  hidden  beneath  the  other's  speech.  There  was 
nothing  normal  or  ordinary  about  her  life  with 
Richard,  these  short  periods  of  calm  which  were 
broken  by  phases  of  tension  and  straining  nerves. 

She  murmured  a  polite  assent  to  Miss  Bagot's  last 
remark.  She  could  think  of  nothing  further  to  say. 
Miss  Bagot  relapsed  into  silence,  after  her  strange 
outburst. 

The  cessation  of  voices  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
two  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Will  you  please  order  the  carriage  for  me?"  said 
Mrs.  D'Esterre.  "  It  is  time  that  we  went  back  to  our 
fastness.  This  has  been  an  oasis,  Mrs.  Assheton. 
When  will  you  come  out  to  Lake  Kariin  and  make 
another  oasis  for  me?     Tomorrow?" 

"Oh,  not  to  morrow, thank  you,"  cried  Anne,  feeling 
that  she  did  not  want  to  see  either  woman  again  so 
soon.  "I  shall  be  very  busy  tomorrow.  Another 
day.  Shall  we  say  next  week?  Richard  can  arrange 
it  with  you  on  his  next  visit. " 

"These  little  excursions  tell  me  that  my  visits  will 
soon  be  no  longer  necessary, "  Richard  put  in.  "  Miss 
Bagot  can  massage  your  ankle  as  well  as  I  can  by 
this." 

"She  has  not  your  magnetic  touch,"  pouted  Liana 
D'Esterre. 

"No,  I  have  not  your  magnetic  touch,"  Miss 
Bagot  agreed. 


Silvery  Fairness  2>^7 

"You  are  almost  well  enough  to  travel  now,  alas!" 
said  Richard,  with  a  twinkle. 

"Almost  is  not  quite,  mon  ami.''* 

"Another  profound  truth." 

"I  shall  not  go  until  next  week,  in  any  case.  Per- 
haps not  then.  You  see,  some  of  my  friends  may  join 
me." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  you  would  snatch  at  a 
chance  of  escape  from  the  solitude  of  Lake  Karlln. 

"Ah,  but  a  solitude  that  has  friends  in  it  is  no  longer 
a  solitude, "  she  said,  smiling  deliciously. 

"You  rival  Solomon  today,  Mrs.  D'Esterre, "  he 
said  lightly.  "Is  it  the  atmosphere  of  El-Medineh 
which  has  inoculated  you  with  so  much  wisdom?" 

"Say,  rather  that  it  is  the  charming  society  of  Mrs. 
Assheton.  She  is,  I  am  sure,  very,  very  wise,  n'est-ce- 
pqs?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  declared  Richard,  with  a  swift 
look  at  Anne.     "She  is  often  very,  very  foolish!" 


CHAPTER  III 

THREADS   OF   FATE 


RICHARD  and  Anne  had  but  one  conversation  on 
the  subject  of  their  visitors.  It  took  place 
several  days  later  during  one  of  their  voyages  of 
exploration  through  the  town. 

She  had  dexterously  avoided  the  subject  up  to  this, 
having  no  wish  to  discuss  it  with  Richard.  She  felt 
all  the  disdain  of  intolerant  youth  for  the  obvious 
coquetries  of  Mrs.  D'Esterre,  mingled  with  a  fierce 
jealousy  of  her  choice  of  Richard  as  a  target  for  her 
shafts.  She  also  resented  his  equally  obvious  pleasure 
in  her  society. 

As  regarded  Miss  Bagot,  Anne  felt  a  faint  distaste 
at  the  thought  of  her.  She  reminded  her  of  one  of 
those  pale  cacti  whose  leaves  seem  smooth  until  you 
touch  them,  when  you  find  that  you  bring  away  your 
hand  covered  with  tiny  prickles. 

Richard  had  been  in  better  spirits  since  their  advent. 
Truth  to  tell,  he  hoped  that  Anne  might  find  the 
society  of  these  women  pleasant,  that  an  interchange 
of  visits  might  break  the  monotony  of  her  days.  Her 
demeanour  puzzled  and  hurt  him:  she  kept  him  so 
determinedly  at  a  distance.     She  was  coolly  friendly, 

388 


Threads  of  Fate  389 

but  no  more.  She  looked  at  him  as  if  from  some  far 
peak  of  time.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  stand  it  very- 
much  longer. 

This  evening  he  had  taken  her  to  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  town  of  Arsinoe,  on  whose  site  the  modern 
Medinet-el-Fay<kn  was  built. 

To  break  the  silence  which  she  had  declared  to  be 
uncomfortable  he  told  her  a  little  about  its  history  as 
he  went,  feeling  as  if  he  were  talking  to  a  stranger,  so 
politely  interested  was  she.  He  persevered  with  a 
heavy  heart. 

"In  ancient  Egyptian  days  the  town  was  named 
Shetet,  and  was  the  centre  of  the  worship  of  the  croco- 
dile-headed water-god,  Sobek,  under  whose  protection 
the  province  lay  in  its  marshy  days.  Then  the  Greeks 
re-named  it  Crocodilopolis,  and  finally  Ptolemy  Phila- 
delphus,  to  honour  the  wife  he  loved,  changed  its  name 
to  Arsinoe,  after  her." 

"To  honour  the  wife  he  loved,"  repeated  Anne 
perversely.     "  It  seems  a  quaint  idea. " 

"Remember  he  was  a  Pagan,  a  Greek,"  retorted 
Richard.     "Nous  avons  change  tout  cela." 

"Yes,  indeed, "  said  Anne,  with  a  smile.  "  How  you 
are  progressing  in  your  French,  Richard!  I  suppose 
you  practise  it  with  Mrs.  D'Esterre." 

The  name  slipped  out  quite  naturally,  and  he 
answered  equally  naturally. 

"No,  indeed,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  foist  my 
few  tags  on  her.  By  the  way,  I  have  arranged  that 
we  shall  lunch  with  her  on  Thursday,  Anne,  if  it  is 
convenient  to  you." 

Anne  paused  for  an  instant  before  she  answered. 

"Yes.     It  is  as  convenient  as  any  other  day. 


390  Drifting  Waters 

suppose  we  must  go."  The  last  words 'were  tenta- 
tive. 

"You  accepted  the  invitation  yourself, "  he  returned 
drily.  "You  mentioned  next  week  and  left  it  to  me  to 
arrange  the  day.  The  affair  seems  inevitable.  Don't 
you  want  to  go?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  like  those  women. " 

"Really,  Anne,  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  such  a 
creature  of  prejudice.  How  have  they  been  unfortu- 
nate enough  to  displease  you?" 

"Mrs.  D'Esterre  is  too  gushing.  She  is  insincere. 
Even  you  must  feel  that. " 

Richard  laughed  the  queer  dry  little  laugh  that  Anne 
had  come  to  dislike;  it  so  convincingly  expressed  either 
disapproval  of  her  or  disagreement  with  her  points  of 
view. 

"My  dear  girl,  even  I  am  not  out  to  demand 
sincerity  from  every  chance  acquaintance. " 

"Mrs.  D'Esterre  is  more  than  a  chance  acquaint- 
ance. "     He  cooled  as  her  anger  rose. 

"You  are  right.  She  is  a  very  charming  woman, 
who  has  honoured  me  with  a  fair  amount  of  friendship. 
She  admires  you  immensely  too.     She  told  me  so. " 

Anne  gave  an  angry  little  laugh. 

"That  was  just  a  little  too  clever  of  her.  She  ought 
to  have  known  that  it  meant  nothing  to  you  whether 
she  admired  me  or  not." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Richard  quietly,  "I  like 
people  to  admire  you,  Anne.  However,  I  don't  think 
that  anyone  would  do  so  now,  you  are  making  yourself 
so  ridiculous." 


Threads  of  Fate  391 

She  turned  on  him  with  blazing  eyes. 

"Ridiculous!"  The  word  almost  choked  her. 
"Justly  wrathful,  if  you  like,  but  ridiculous " 

"Yes.  You  are  being  absolutely  childish,"  he 
answered  hardly.     ' '  My  patience  is  almost  at  an  end. " 

"Your  patience!  Do  you  think  I  want  your 
patience?"     The  thought  stung. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  what  do  you  want,  then?" 
he  cried  fiercely,  "I  warn  you,  Anne,  you  are  trying 
me  very  far. " 

"  No  farther  than  you  are  trying  me, "  she  answered. 
"I  can't  stand  much  more. " 

"  You  can't  stand  much  more?  My  God!"  He 
moved  away  from  her  and  bit  his  lip. 

The  ancient  city  of  Arsinoe  lay,  a  rubbish-heap, 
about  them.  Here  and  there  were  the  remains  of 
crumbling  walls  and  narrow  interlacing  lanes  on  which 
the  sun  beat  by  day  with  pitiless  force,  while  by  night 
jackals,  with  their  thin,  sharp  howls  that  cut  across 
the  stillness,  prowled  where  kings  once  trod. 

All  that  remained  of  the  ancient  temples  were  a  few 
tumbled  blocks  of  limestone,  while  only  a  slight 
depression  in  the  ground  marked  the  spot  where  once 
had  been  the  sacred  lake  in  which  the  Crocodile-God, 
Sobek,  was  kept. 

It  was  a  fitting  scene  for  the  slaying  and  burying  of 
hopes,  this  dead  city  beneath  their  feet,  whose  dust  lay 
deep  over  the  dust  of  those  whose  loves,  and  fears,  and 
griefs,  and  passions  had  once  throbbed  and  burned  as 
fiercely  as  theirs  did. 

"This  can't  go  on, "  said  Anne,  after  a  pause,  whose 
tension  hurt. 

"No.     You're  right.     It  can't. " 


392  Drifting  Waters  , 

"We  had  better  end  it, "  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice. 

"End  it?"  he  cried.     " Do  you  mean  that,  Anne?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  her  pride  as  high  as  his. 

"Yes.  I  mean  it.  I  think  it  is  best.  I  can't  go 
on, "  she  repeated,  dully. 

He  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"If  your  endurance  has  given  out,  what  of  mine?" 
he  said  hoarsely.  "You  come  here,  you  tempt  me  to 
the  limit  of  my  strength,  you  deny  me  everything,  even 
civility,  and  then  you  taunt  me.  Do  you  know  that 
by  every  law  you  are  mine,  to  take  and  break  if  I 
choose,  and  you  stand  there  with  your  white  face  and 
mocking  eyes,  and  won't  give  me  as  much  as  the  tip  of 
your  little  finger!" 

He  crushed  her  to  him  in  a  fierce  grip.  She  put  her 
hand  against  his  chest  and  pushed  him  from  her  with 
all  her  force. 

"Richard,  let  me  go.  Are  you  mad?"  she  cried 
desperately. 

For  a  moment  the  two  faces,  transformed  with  pas- 
sion, gazed  at  each  other,  ugly,  distorted.  The  sound 
of  their  heavy  breathing  beat  upon  the  still  air  like  a 
pulse.  Then  from  the  distant  minaret  came  the  faint 
far  call  of  the  muezzin:  "Allah  is  greatest.  There  is 
no  God  but  Allah!" 

The  call  to  prayer,  to  peace,  fell  like  rain  upon  their 
turbulent  angry  spirits. 

The  black  look  died  out  of  Richard's  face.  He  re- 
leased her  suddenly  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Anne.  I  think  I  was  mad 
for  a  moment, "  he  said  in  a  voice  from  which  all  life 
seemed  to  have  been  drained. 


RICHARD,   LET    ME    GO  I      ARC    YOU    MAD?"    SHE    CRIED    DESPERATELY 


Threads  of  Fate  393 

Anne  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  Her  brows 
were  drawn  together;  her  very  lips  were  white.  Her 
eyes  were  wild. 

"  I — I  think  I  hate  you!"  she  cried. 

"Don't  let  us  have  mutual  recriminations,  please," 
he  answered,  in  the  same  dead  tones.  "I  apologize. 
Let  us  keep  some  shreds  of  our  dignity.  Later  on  you 
can  let  me  know  what  arrangements  you  would  like 
me  to  make  about  your  going  home. " 

"My  going  home?" 

"Yes.     That's  what  you  wish,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course,"  she  returned  quickly. 

The  thought  struck  her  like  a  blow.  It  was  she  who 
had  burned  her  boats  now,  and  with  a  vengeance.  The 
climax  had  come,  crashing  down  upon  her  "great 
Hopes,  gold-armoured,"  and  slaying  them  before  her 
very  eyes.  It  took  nothing  from  the  bitterness  of  the 
thought  to  realize  that  it  was  she  herself  who  had 
precipitated  events ;  that  it  was  the  dross  of  selfishness 
which  overlaid  her  own  love  that  had  roused  her  temper 
and  loosed  its  hot  impatience  to  her  undoing.  She  had 
said  in  her  anger — that  raging  Tudor  passion  which 
had  momentarily  mastered  her — that  she  had  hated 
Richard.  But  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  knew  that 
no  matter  what  he  did  or  said,  no  matter  how  he 
affronted  her  or  neglected  her,  in  her  love  lay  the 
indestructible  spark  that  is  bom  of  the  fire  of  Love 
Eternal. 

"I  should  like  to  go  as  soon  as  possible,"  she  said, 
feeling  as  if  she  must  escape  at  any  cost. 

"You  can't  go  until  after  Thursday,"  he  answered 
grimly. 

' '  Richard !     Do  you  mean —  " 


394  Drifting  Waters 

"  I  mean  that  it  was  you  who  made  the  engagement, 
Anne,  not  I.  You  must  keep  to  it.  I  will  not  have 
you  treat  my  friends  with  discourtesy. " 

His  lips  were  set  in  a  hard  line.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  come  up  against  an  unsuspected  wall  of 
inflexibility  in  his  character.  He  was  more  than  ever 
the  unknown  man. 

She  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  protest;  then  a  swift 
sense  of  shame  kept  her  silent.  How  unutterably 
futile  and  silly  it  all  seemed.  ...  If  only  he 
had  not  called  her  ridiculous!  The  word  stung 
absurdly.  .  .  That,  she  saw  now,  was  also  futile 
and  silly. 

"I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  she  said,  with  an  eflort. 

"Thank  you." 

To  their  right  lay  the  town  of  El-Medineh,  a  pleas- 
ing outline  of  slender  minarets  and  flat-topped  houses, 
broken  by  the  massed  silhouettes  of  acacia-trees 
and  the  feathery  crests  of  tall  palms.  Away  in  the 
southeast  rose  the  Pyramids  of  Haw^ra,  pinkish 
triangles  against  a  paling  horizon.  Around  and 
beneath  them  stretched  the  cnmibling  city  of  a  dead 
civilization. 

Anne  looked  at  it  all  with  eyes  which  felt  as  if  they 
never  would  see  any  other  scene.  A  lifetime  seemed 
to  separate  this  moment  from  the  moment  when  she 
had  first  beheld  it.  The  gulf  between  past  and  present 
measured  by  emotion,  which  is  less  calculable  than 
time,  gloomed  like  a  bottomless  abyss,  across  which 
no  bridge  could  ever  be  flung. 

It  seemed  to  widen  even  as  she  gazed,  and  Richard 
stood  on  the  other  side,  with  the  eyes  of  a  stricken 
man. 


Threads  of  Fate  395 


II 


A  very  sickness  of  soul  weighed  upon  Anne  in  the 
days  that  followed,  yet  she  was  imbued  withal  with 
that  strange  fatalistic  calm  which  arises  from  the  sense 
of  knowing  the  worst  that  is  to  be  known. 

She  had  tried  and  failed.  He  had  tried  and  failed. 
Neither  had  attained  their  ideal,  and  neither  would  be 
content  with  less.  They  had  done  with  makeshifts. 
They  were  too  near  each  other  and  the  stormy  happen- 
ings of  their  attempt  at  life  together  to  see  things 
clearly.  They  must  get  away  from  each  other  to  get 
a  true  knowledge  of  its  perspective. 

Anne  did  not  look  ahead.  She  could  not.  She 
dared  not.  She  clung  to  the  one  fact  that  she  wanted 
to  get  away,  to  be  alone,  to  be  able  to  think.  Their 
life  was  a  failure,  and  it  was  her  fault  as  well  as  his. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  Richard  with  that  haunted 
look  in  his  eyes.  She  knew  too  well  what  had  caused 
it,  the  frustration  of  his  dearest  hopes,  and  the  bitter 
self-blame  for  their  unconsidered  marriage.  If  Mrs. 
D'Esterre  had  never  come  to  the  Fayum  perhaps  he 
would  have  been  more  patient,  would  not  have  given 
up  his  attempt  at  finding  his  ideal  in  her  so  soon,  but 
from  the  very  moment  of  their  meeting  she  had  seen 
the  change  in  him.  He  was  a  different  man  from 
the  Ricky  whom  she  had  loved  so  passionately,  so 
hopelessly. 

Her  mind  harped  persistently  on  the  thought  of 
flight.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  to  go  away.  She 
could  not  have  borne  to  stay  on  and  see  him  daily 
slipping  from  her. 

The   estrangement   now   was   almost   unbearable, 


39^  Drifting  Waters 

though  Richard  made  it  as  easy  for  her  as  he  could. 
He  was  very  quiet,  very  aloof.  Conversation  was 
carried  on  by  both  for  the  benefit  of  the  servants, 
whom  it  did  not  deceive  in  the  least. 

He  paved  the  way  for  the  announcement  of  her 
departure  by  speaking  of  the  bazaar  rumour  of  a  chol- 
era scare. 

"If  there  is  anything  in  it  I  shall  pack  you  and 
Sabina  home  at  once,"  he  announced  at  dinner. 

She  looked  up  quickly. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  cholera,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  answered 
coldly.  "  You  ought  to  be  pleased.  It's  more  than  a 
straw  to  catch  at. " 

She  was  silent  at  the  allusion.  Her  mind  ranged 
back  to  the  day  when  he  had  compared  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
to  the  drowning  man  and  himself  to  the  straw.  At 
another  time  she  would  have  laughed,  but  laughter  had 
fled  far  from  the  hearts  of  each. 

The  days  were  made  easier  to  bear  by  some  young 
Englishmen  belonging  to  the  Irrigation  Department, 
who  had  called  on  Anne,  and  who  constantly  claimed 
Richard  to  make  a  fourth  at  tennis.  Once  or  twice 
she  went  too,  and  had  tea  with  them  in  what  they  called 
their  barracks,  but  she  generally  stayed  at  home  in 
the  bare,  cream-coloured  house  which  had  grown  so 
strangely  dear  to  her. 

At  last  Sabina's  suspicions  were  aroused. 

"What's  this  I'm  hearing  about  cholera  and  our 
going  home?"  she  asked  Anne  ©ne  day  when  she  was 
brushing  her  hair. 

Anne  was  prepared  for  the  question.  She  had 
avoided  being  alone  with  Sabina  as  much  as  she  could, 


Threads  of  Fate  397 

but  she  knew  that  sooner  or  later  this  moment  was 
inevitable. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  before  she  answered,  bracing 
herself  for  an  ordeal. 

"There  is  a  rumour  of  cholera  in  the  town.  The — 
master  said  the  other  night  that  he  had  heard  of  it, 
and  if  it  turns  out  to  be  true  he  is  going  to  send  us 
home." 

"Where's  home?"  asked  Sabina,  bluntly.  "Trent?" 

Anne  shrank  from  the  thought. 

"No.     Oh,  no." 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  go  back  to  Caroline  Place?" 
Sabina  fixed  her  with  her  eyes. 

"  I  couldn't  go  there.     I  simply  couldn't. " 

"It's  let,  too,  by  the  same  token.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Nutkin  this  very  day.  Sure,  'tisn't  afraid 
of  cholera  you  are,  ma'am,  and  it  only  a  rumour  at 
that." 

Anne  was  silent. 

"I  didn't  bring  you  up  to  be  a  coward,  Miss  Anne, " 
said  Sabina,  with  so  hard  a  stroke  of  the  brush  that  it 
was  almost  a  blow. 

Anne  winced.     "You're  hurting  me,  Sabina." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  ma'am,"  answered 
Sabina,  holding  the  black  strands  in  a  grip  of  iron, 
' '  but  I  want  to  know  the  truth  about  them  rumours. 
Rumours  of  rumours,  I  call  'em!" 

"  I've  told  you  all  I  know. " 

"Which  same  a  tomtit  might  carry  across  a  bog 
without  the  weight  of  it  hurting  him, "  sniffed  Sabina. 
"Your  home  is  here,  ma'am,  and  divil  a  bit  of  me 
would  be  frightened  away  from  it,  cholera  or  no 
cholera." 


398  Drifting  Waters 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  cholera,"  said  Anne  very  low, 
knowing  she  was  not  speaking  the  absolute  truth. 
Her  heart  was  filled  with  a  sickening  dread  of  it — for 
Richard. 

"Why  would  you  be  going  away,  then?" 

Anne's  patience  suddenly  failed.  She  drew  herself 
up  and  spoke  in  a  cold  tone  which  Sabina  had  rarely 
heard  from  her. 

"If  the  master  wishes  us  to  go,  we  must  go,  Sabina. 
Surely  you  see  that.  How  could  we  make  it  more 
difificult  for  him  by  insisting  on  remaining?" 

"Does  he  want  us  to  go,  though?"  Sabina  persisted. 

"He  will  tell  us  himself.  I  think  it  is  very  probable. 
That  will  do  now,  Sabina.  I  don't  want  my  hair 
brushed  any  more,  thanks. " 

Sabina  looked  over  the  white-draped  shoulder  at 
Anne's  frowning  reflection  in  the  glass. 

"If  you  go  on  making  them  nasty  cross  faces,  Miss 
Anne,  'tis  the  hij  jus  old  woman  you'll  be  in  your  old 
age!" 

With  this  parting  shot  she  hunched  an  offending 
shoulder  and  marched  stiffly  out  of  the  room. 

"Really,  Sabina  is  intolerable, "said  Anne  to  her- 
self.    "I  don't  know  how  I  stand  her." 

Then,  the  picture  of  a  world  with  only  Sabina  in  it 
presenting  itself  to  her,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  were  broken. 


ni 


The  cholera  scare  resolved  itself  into  a  fugitive  case 
or  two,  which,  immediately  isolated,  presented  no 
feattires  of  real  danger  to  the  community.     In  any 


Threads  of  Fate  399 

case,  even  had  the  numbers  been  considerably  larger, 
there  would  have  been  scarcely  any  risk  for  the  Euro- 
pean colony.  Still,  the  seeds  of  rumours  once  sown 
spring  to  prolific  harvest,  and  the  tale  of  cholera  being 
in  the  Fayiim  spread  to  other  parts  of  Egypt,  and 
provided  a  sufficient  reason  for  Anne's  forthcoming 
departure. 

The  excuse  irked  her.  She  was  no  coward.  Noth- 
ing in  the  world  would  have  driven  her  from  Richard's 
side  if  he  had  wished  her  to  stay,  but  it  was  he  who 
bade  her  go:  a  verdict  from  which  there  was  no 
appeal. 

The  days  crept  on  towards  the  dreaded  Thursday, 
and  she  had  made  no  definite  arrangements  as  yet. 
She  did  not  know  where  to  go,  or  what  to  do.  Richard 
had  not  mentioned  the  subject  since  that  evening  in 
the  ruined  Arsinoe :  that  horrible  evening  when  pas- 
sion, like  a  beast  about  to  spring,  had  looked  at  her 
out  of  his  fierce  blue  eyes. 

She  shivered  at  the  thought  of  it.  It  terrified  her, 
and  yet,  unacknowledged  even  to  herself,  something 
within  her  had  leaped  to  answer  it — something  that 
unadmitted,  recognized  in  him  her  mate,  her  man. 

Why  could  he  not  have  loved  her  as  she  loved  him  ? 
Passion  was  ugly;  Love  was  beautiful.  What  was  the 
flaw  in  her  that  made  him  desire  her  only  like  that? 
In  that  ugly  way? 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  burning  cheeks. 

The  hours  stole  on,  slow  in  the  actual  moment  of 
their  going,  yet,  with  an  incredible  swiftness,  reaching 
the  end  of  another  day.  She  felt  like  a  condemned 
man  who  does  not  know  the  date  fixed  for  his  own 
execution.     Any  day  after  Thiursday,  that  was  all  she 


400  Drifting  Waters 

knew.  Thursday,  that  important  day  which  the 
Arabs  call  "the  blessed!" 

On  Wednesday  evening  at  dinner  Richard  broke  the 
silence. 

"I  have  been  making  inquiries  about  the  different 
sailings, "  he  said,  in  a  hard,  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"Oh,  have  you?"  answered  Anne,  looking  up 
quickly. 

Her  heart  began  to  flutter  in  an  annoying  way  that 
made  speech  difficult.  She  searched  Richard's  face, 
but  read  nothing  therein.  It  was  thin  and  masklike. 
Even  his  eyes  gave  no  hint  as  to  his  real  thoughts. 

"There  is  one,  the  Orinoco,  that  sails  from  Alex- 
andria on  Tuesday,  and  returns  to  England  via  Naples 
and  Genoa.  The  agent  tells  me  he  could  secure  you  a 
good  berth  in  that. " 

"That  would  do  very  well,"  said  Anne  tonelessly. 
Was  it  possible  that  she  was  speaking  of  her  own  affairs, 
of  her  own  exile  from  the  life  she  had  learned  to  love? 

"If  you  wished  you  could  leave  the  steamer  at 
Naples,  and  travel  home  slowly  through  Italy  and 
France, "  he  suggested. 

Anne  caught  at  the  idea.  Here  was  a  chance  of 
reprieve  from  England  and  present  decision.  She  and 
Sabina  could  drift  among  the  storied  cities  until  she 
recovered  some  grip  on  life  and  the  capability  of 
making  plans. 

"That  is  a  brain-wave, "  she  said,  trying  to  speak  in 
as  ordinary  a  tone  as  he  did.  "  I  should  like  to  do  that 
better  than  anything  else. " 

"Very  well.  I  will  arrange  it  for  you.  You  can 
leave  this  by  the  afternoon  train  on  Monday  and  stay 
the  night  in  Cairo.     The  boat-train  starts  for  Alexan- 


Threads  of  Fate  401 

dria  at  ten  o'clock  on  Tuesday.  If  you  wish  I  will  take 
you  as  far  as  Cairo.  If  you  would  rather  I  didn't  go 
I  shall  see  that  every  arrangement  is  made  for  your 
comfort. " 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  very  low.  "I — I  think  I 
would  rather  you  did  not  come  to  Cairo. " 

"Very  well,  then.     That's  settled. " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  hint  of  relief  in  his 
tone.  She  had  answered  as  she  thought  he  would  have 
wished.  The  very  fact  of  his  giving  her  a  choice 
showed  that  he  would  rather  not  go  with  her  to 
Cairo,  or  so  she  imagined. 

"About — money?"  she  ventured  tentatively. 

Quite  without  intention  she  had  moved  him.  A  red 
flush  dyed  his  face,  mounting  even  to  his  forehead. 

"That  is  my  affair, "  he  said  curtly. 

"But,  Richard,  please " 

"Kindly  leave  the  matter  to  me,  Anne.  It  does 
not  concern  you. " 

"It  does  concern  me,"  she  cried.  "I  have  more 
money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  You  must  let 
me  pay  for  my  own  expenses. " 

He  capitulated  suddenly,  with  a  hard  little  laugh 
that  hurt  her  horribly. 

"So  you  won't  even  let  me  pay  for  my  experiment 
in  dross.  You  only  want  your  pound  of  flesh.  God ! 
How  cruel  women  can  be!" 

"I — I  don't  want  to  be  cruel,"  she  cried  with 
trembling  lips.  "Do  as  you  like.  We  needn't  let  a 
triviality  like  money  be  added  to  the  barrier  between 
us." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  "No,  we  needn't  be 
petty  anyhow,  when  the  thing  we're  really  up  against 
26 


402  Drifting  Waters 

is  so  immeasurably  big. "  His  eyes  still  searched  her 
face.  Then  he  laughed  again.  "Well,  we've  had  the 
truth  anyhow.  We  don't  want  makeshifts.  The  poets 
tell  us  that  high  failure  is  better  than  low  success. 
We  didn't  want  low  success,  did  we,  Anne?" 

"No,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

"We're  two  idiots  who  go  in  for  those  expensive 
luxuries  called  ideals, "  he  went  on,  in  the  same  bitter, 
detached  way.  "Such  are  predestined  for  the  high 
failures  of  the  world.  Chilly  things,  high  failures. 
The  low  success  at  any  rate  has  the  merit  of  being 
warm  and  human. " 

Warm  and  human!  Would  she  ever  feel  anything 
warm  and  human  again,  she  wondered  dully,  as 
Richard  opened  the  drawing-room  door  for  her,  closed 
it  behind  her,  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

The  murmur  of  the  sakkiyehs  came  to  her  com- 
plainingly,  adding  to  her  sense  of  desolation. 


rv 


The  road  to  Lake  Kariin  led  through  many  mud- 
villages  clustered  about  groups  of  palm-trees. 

Anne,  as  she  drove  alone  towards  the  Hotel  Mceris, 
watched  the  women  with  baskets  of  dung-cakes  on 
their  heads,  entering  the  primitive  doorways,  or  com- 
ing out,  bowl  in  hand  to  the  mud  corn-bins,  round 
which  long-legged  fowls  clustered  in  the  hope  of 
dropped  grains.  She  saw  the  palisades  of  maize- 
stalks  which  Richard  had  described  to  her,  and  as  they 
went  farther  from  El-Medineh  she  saw  the  blue-girt 
men,  with  bare  brown  legs,  beating  the  com  with 
flails. 


Threads  of  Fate  403 

It  all  seemed  peaceful,  primitive,  Biblical.  She 
could  scarcely  believe  that  in  a  day  or  two  she  would 
leave  it  all  behind  for  ever.  The  future  held  no  hope 
of  reunion  with  Richard.  As  he  had  said,  makeshifts 
would  satisfy  neither  of  them.  She  had  been  weighed 
and  found  wanting.  She  had  fallen  far  short  of  his 
ideal.  The  idea  of  life  \^'ith  her  was  evidently  impos- 
sible to  him.  But  oh,  her  sore  heart  cried,  how  well 
she  knew  that  she  could  be  to  him  what  no  other 
woman  could  ever  be,  if  only  he  loved  her  as  she  loved 
him. 

If!  After  Love  she  thought  that  it  must  be  the 
biggest  monosyllable  in  human  life. 

She  looked  with  weary  eyes  at  the  endless  procession 
which  wended  its  way  from  Lake  Karun  to  the  nearest 
railway-station:  rough  country-carts,  camels  and 
donkeys,  all  laden  alike  with  crudely-made  wicker 
baskets  full  of  fish  lightly  packed  in  rushes,  whose 
ultimate  destination  was  Cairo  or  Alexandria. 

She  felt  a  sense  of  resentment  against  Fate  that 
Richard  was  not  with  her.  An  urgent  call  had  kept 
him  just  as  they  were  about  to  start.  He  was  to 
follow  later  on  Zobeida.  He  would  probably  overtake 
her,  he  said,  as  Zobeida  was  able  to  go  much  quicker 
than  the  thin  long-tailed  horses  which  drew  her 
arahiyeh. 

They  could  have  talked  about  the  country  sights  and 
sounds.  He  would  have  been  near  her ;  she  could  have 
listened  to  his  voice.  He  would  have  told  her  of  the 
fabled  Lake  Moeris  on  whose  site  the  modern  Lake 
Kariin  is  supposed  to  lie.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been 
cheated  out  of  something  that  was  her  right. 

She  gathered  all  her  self-control  for  the  coming 


404  Drifting  Waters 

encounter.  Oddly  enough  the  thought  of  Mrs. 
D'Esterre  had  ceased  to  sting.  The  wound  had  gone 
too  deep  for  that.  Anne  was  conscious  of  a  throbbing 
ache,  a  dull  sense  of  finality  beneath  her  surface  calm. 
She  was  a  woman  with  an  obsession,  an  idea  so  firmly 
fixed  that  no  other  aspect  of  the  case  had  the  faintest 
chance  of  presenting  itself  to  her  mental  vision. 

She  meant  to  go  through  the  ordeal  proudly,  to 
carry  her  banner  high  for  Richard's  sake.  It  was 
the  last  thing  she  could  do  for  him.  He  should  at  least 
find  no  flaw  in  her  conduct  today.  It  was  to  be — not 
high  failure,  but  success,  success  whose  altitude  she 
did  not  measure. 

The  road  began  a  gradual  descent  towards  the  lake. 
Inland  the  canal  waters  rushed  between  tamarisk- 
bordered  banks,  speeding  onwards  with  murmuring 
song,  to  lose  themselves  finally  in  the  greater  waters 
of  Lake  Kariin. 

Anne  caught  her  breath  at  the  strange  beauty  of  the 
scene  that  unfolded  itself  before  her. 

The  lake  shimmered  in  the  blue  haze  of  morning, 
reflecting,  as  a  mirror  might,  the  primitive  high- 
prowed  boats  that  lay,  startling,  black,  upon  the  still 
surface.  Rushes  and  feathery  tamarisks  fringed  its 
borders.  Fairy  islets  seemed  to  float  upon  the  sheet 
of  shimmering  silver,  which  the  morning  breeze 
stirred  here  and  there  to  palest  blue  ripples.  A  deep- 
ening sky  spread  from  horizon  to  horizon. 

Between  sky  and  water  lay  the  desert  and  the  Lib- 
yan Hills,  glowing  peach-coloured  in  the  strong  sun- 
light. On  a  distant  sand-bank  gleamed  white  shapes 
of  pelicans  magnified  by  the  quivering  heat-haze. 

It  was  a  magic  symphony  in  rose,  silver,  and  blue. 


Threads  of  Fate  405 

Anne  found  it  difficult  to  determine  where  the 
reflection  of  rosy  land  began  or  ended.  It  was  a 
strip  of  glowing  colour  between  the  blues  of  sky  and 
lake. 

She  stopped  the  carriage  and  gazed  for  a  while  at 
the  exquisite  scene.  Gradually  its  peace  influenced 
her. 

After  a  while  she  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  one 
o'clock,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  Richard. 

A  white  peak  showed  in  a  green  blur  by  the  lake. 
It  was  the  roof  of  the  Hotel  Moeris. 

She  felt  that  perhaps  it  would  be  easier  if  she  made 
her  entry  alone.  The  necessary  explanation  about 
Richard  would  make  a  beginning.  She  told  the  driver 
to  go  on. 

When  she  drew  nearer  to  the  little  hotel  some  im- 
pulse made  her  stop  him  again.  She  said  that  she 
would  walk  the  rest  of  the  way. 

Her  footsteps  made  no  sound  in  the  yielding  sand  as 
she  strolled  slowly  towards  the  tented  hostel,  which 
stood  half-hidden  in  a  forest  of  tall  reeds,  whose  pale 
flowering  plumes  waved  gently  above  it. 

She  had  to  pass  a  row  of  straw-thatched  huts  to  get 
to  it.  From  the  peak  of  each  hung  a  limp  crimson  and 
white  Egyptian  flag.  Through  their  doors  she  saw 
beds,  tables,  and  chairs. 

The  Hotel  Moeris  was  half  tent,  half  hut,  with  a 
wooden  staircase  leading  up  to  its  second  storey.  A 
square  opening  in  the  canvas  revealed  a  glimpse  of 
a  room  within  hung  with  the  brilliantly  coloured 
tenting  so  beloved  of  the  Arabs.  The  aperture  had 
a  balcony  rail  along  it.  The  sound  of  voices  came 
from  it. 


4o6  Drifting  Waters 

As  Anne  approached  she  glanced  instinctively 
upwards. 

Mrs.  D'Esterre  sat  inside  the  tent-room  with  her 
white  arms  leaning  along  the  rail.  A  man  who  was 
half  in  shadow  stood  behind  her,  with  one  hand  clasped 
on  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  was  looking  up  at  him 
and  smiling.  His  face  was  bent  towards  hers.  Anne 
could  not  see  it  properly. 

Something  in  the  little  scene,  in  the  man's  pose, 
stirred  her  inexplicably.  She  turned  her  head  away 
and  went  on  towards  the  staircase  as  if  she  had  seen 
nothing. 

The  sound  of  running  water  came  to  her  through 
the  reeds,  among  whose  stems  tiny  shy  birds  flitted 
in  and  out  piping  faintly.  On  the  canal  bank  a  blue- 
robed  fisher  cast  his  net,  like  a  brown  mist,  into  the 
water  and  drew  it  out  half-full  of  leaping  silver  fish. 

She  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  clung  to  the 
wooden  banister  for  a  moment  before  she  began  to 
mount  them.     Her  head  felt  strangely  light. 

"Ah,  dear  Mrs.  Assheton,  is  that  you?"  said  a  voice 
from  above.  "But  what  have  you  done  with  your 
husband?" 

With  a  quick  sense  of  relief  Anne  saw  that  it  was 
Miss  Bagot. 


"So  you  rushed  here  two  days  sooner  than  we  had 
planned,"  said  Liane  D'Esterre,  "simply  because  you 
heard  that  silly  rumour  of  the  cholera  scare. " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man,  looking  down  at  her 
with  a  smile  in  his  bold  eyes.     "I  was  not  going  to 


Threads  of  Fate  4^7 

have  you  run  any  risks.  I  got  to  Luxor  from  the 
Sudan  only  the  night  before  last,  and  came  on  here 
the  moment  I  heard. " 

"To  fling  me  over  your  saddle  and  ride  away, "  she 
suggested  with  an  upward  glance. 

"It  is  what  I  should  like  to  do,  I  confess,"  he 
rejoined,  with  a  laugh. 

"Ah,  mon  ami,  discretion,  I  beg,"  she  pouted,  with 
finger  on  lip. 

"You  are  not  pleased  at  my  devotion." 

"I  am  not  pleased,  but  it  is  rather  with  your  lack 
of  confidence  in  me  than  with  your  devotion.  Why 
did  you  not  do  as  I  told  you  and  come  tomorrow  as  we 
had  arranged?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  doing  as  I'm  told.  Also  there 
was  this  cholera  scare.  You're  an  ungrateful  monkey, 
Liane. " 

"Am  I?"  she  flung  at  him  with  a  smile.  "But 
there  are  people  coming  to  lunch  with  me  today  and 
I  don't  want  to  share  you  with  any  one,  chSri. " 

"That's  better.     Who  are  the  people?" 

"A  Dr.  Assheton  and  his  wife.  Young,  English, 
newly-married.     He  cured  my  foot. " 

"Lord,  that  does  sound  boring.  Not  his  cure,  but 
his  company.     You  flirted  with  him,  of  course  ? " 

"He  was  better  than  no  one,"  said  Liane  ungrate- 
fully.    "  Now  if  you  had  been  here " 

"Even  if  I  had  I  couldn't  have  stayed.  Les  con- 
venances have  got  to  be  observed. " 

They  both  laughed,  and  he  laid  his  hand  caressingly 
on  her  bare  neck.  She  made  a  little  crooning  sound, 
and  rubbed  her  head  against  him. 

At  that  moment  Anne  passed  and  looked  up. 


4o8  Drifting  Waters 

At  sight  of  her  the  man  dropped  his  hand  and 
stepped  farther  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  room. 

"Liana,  who  is  that ? "  he  asked  in  a  curiously  altered 
voice. 

Mrs.  D'Esterre,  who  had  not  seen  Anne,  peered 
out. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Assheton,  and  all  alone.  Mon  Dieu,  I 
wonder  where  her  husband  is.  How  dreadful  for  you, 
cheri,  to  be  left  with  three  women  to  talk  to!" 

She  looked  up,  expecting  a  laughing  answer,  and 
exclaimed  at  sight  of  his  face: 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Toto?  You  look  as  if  you 
had  seen  a  ghost. " 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had,"  he  answered  trying  to  speak 
naturally.  The  hand  which  had  fallen  to  the  back  of 
her  chair  trembled. 

"Whose  ghost?"  she  asked  quickly,  jealously. 

"The  ghost  of  my  wife,"  he  answered,  recovering 
himself. 

"The  woman  who  divorced  you?" 

He  nodded.     "You've  heard  the  story?" 

"Everyone  has  always  heard  at  least  a  version  of 
every  story.  But  this  girl  can't  have  anything  to  do 
with  it.     Her  name  was  Warrener,  I  think. " 

He  started.  "My  God!  That  was  my  wife's 
name — Margaret  Warrener. " 

"Mrs.  Assheton's  name  is  Anne." 

"That  was  what  she  called  the  child." 

"The  child?"  gasped  Liane  D'Esterre.  "Your 
child?" 

"Yes.** 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  frankest  surprise  and 
curiosity — a  look  tinged  also  with  a  spice  of  malicious 


Threads  of  Fate  409 

delight  at  the  prospect  of  such  an  unexpected  denoue- 
ment under  her  very  eyes. 

"Is  it  possible,  mon  ami,  that  this  stately  frigid 
young  Englishwoman  who  disapproves  so  entirely  of 
my  little  friendship  with  her  husband  can  be  your 
daughter?" 

"It  appears  to  be  only  too  probable,"  he  answered, 
sinking  into  a  chair.  "She  is  the  very  image  of 
what  her  mother  used  to  be.  The  question  is,  what 
are  we  to  do,  Liane?  It  is  rather  an  awkward 
situation.  What  about  your  luncheon-party?  Shall 
I  disappear?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  cannot,  mon  ami.  I  hear  voices 
coming  into  the  next  room.  It  is  too  late  to  do 
anything. " 

She  rose  on  a  wave  of  delighted  excitement.  At 
least  she  would  see  the  breaking  up  of  Anne's  frigidity. 
Her  frosty  courtesy  must  disappear  under  such  a 
revelation. 

The  setting  was  perfect:  the  brilliant  colours  of 
the  Egyptian  gods  and  goddesses  patterned  on  the 
cream  tenting  for  background,  with  a  vignette  of  the 
shining  lake  seen  through  the  square  aperture. 

Godfrey  Tudor  stood  upright  as  the  sound  of  voices 
approached,  with  a  look  on  his  handsome,  arrogant 
face  that  few  had  ever  seen  there.  The  past  was  about 
to  leap  upon  him  from  its  ambush,  and  he  had  little 
relish  for  the  thought. 

The  sound  came  nearer,  as  the  two  women  passed 
through  the  outer  room,  where  the  luncheon-table 
was  already  laid. 

Miss  Bagot  held  up  a  flap  of  the  tenting  to  let  Anne 
enter,  and  dropped  it  behind  her.     For  a  moment  the 


4IO  Drifting  Waters 

girl's  slim  white  figure  stood  outlined  against  the  vivid 
reds  and  greens  and  blues  of  Horus,  Isis,  and  Anubis. 

Mrs.  D'Esterre  came  forward,  bubbling  over  with 
charming  insincerities. 

Anne,  smiling,  made  Richard's  excuses. 

The  bar  of  light  from  the  open  aperture  accentu- 
ated the  shadow  in  which  Godfrey  Tudor  stood.  She 
was  aware  of  a  tall  figure  only,  a  figure  which  stood 
curiously  still  instead  of  advancing  for  an  introduction. 
Her  cursory  glance  revealed  no  more. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  good  news  to  hear  that  we  shall  have 
Dr.  Assheton  after  all,"  Liane  D'Esterre  cried,  with 
fluttering  gestures.  "I  was  desolated  when  I  saw  that 
he  was  not  with  you.  I  feared  that  it  was  this  cholera 
bogey  which  had  kept  him.  You  have  heard  of  the 
scare,  n'est-ce-pas?" 

"Yes,"  Anne  answered,  now  uncomfortably  aware 
of  a  penetrating  gaze  from  the  rigid  figure  in  the 
shadow.  "My  husband  is  a  little  nervous  for  me. 
He  talks  of  sending  me  home  next  week." 

Mrs.  D'Esterre  turned  quickly  towards  Tudor. 

"Then  there  is  something  in  it  after  all,  Toto.  My 
friends  at  Luxor  were  so  anxious  about  me  when  they 
heard  the  rumour,  Mrs.  Assheton,  that  one  of  them 
came  to  fetch  me.  May  I  introduce  him  to  you?  Mr. 
Tudor.  Your  name  was  Tudor,  was  it  not?  He  is 
perhaps  some  relation  of  yours?" 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  quick  glances 
of  interest. 

At  her  words  Godfrey  Tudor  stepped  forward.  The 
light  from  without  fell  full  upon  him. 

Anne  shrank  back,  white  and  startled,  when  she  saw 
him.     Save  for  the  lines  that  told  of  hard  living  and  a 


Threads  of  Fate  411 

slight  coarsening  of  the  clearly-cut  arrogant  features, 
she  was  looking  into  the  same  face,  the  same  eyes,  that 
had  gazed  at  her  so  boldly  from  the  wall  of  the  boudoir 
at  Trent. 

For  a  moment  she  grew  icy  cold,  and  the  brilliant 
colours  of  the  tenting  seemed  to  fade  and  recede. 
Then  life  returned  in  a  measure  as  she  realized  that 
she  was  face  to  face  with  the  man  whom  her  mother 
had  loved  so  madly,  the  man  who  had  darkened  and 
embittered  her  whole  life. 

As  in  a  dream  she  was  aware  that  he  came  forward 
towards  her. 

"I  think  that  you  must  be  my  daughter,  Anne," 
he  said  in  a  low  tone,  taking  her  limp  hand  in  his. 

She  drew  it  away  with  a  little  shudder,  and  wiped 
it  against  her  skirt  with  the  instinctive  gesture  of  a 
disgusted  child. 

He  drew  back. 

"Yes,"  she  said  dully. 

"You  are  ill.  It  has  been  a  shock,"  she  heard  his 
voice  say  as  from  a  distance. 

It  was  a  pleasant,  well-bred  voice,  tone  and  inflec- 
tion reminding  her  instantly  of  her  Aunt  Nancy. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  lifeless  way. 

Then  someone  put  her  into  a  chair,  someone  else 
brought  something  in  a  glass  and  made  her  drink  it. 
When  the  blur  cleared  she  found  that  she  was  lying 
back  in  a  long  chair,  gazing  at  the  lake,  on  whose 
hyaline  surface  water-fowl  lay  as  if  etched  there,  in 
lines  and  groups  of  black  dots,  until  they  disturbed 
its  placidity  with  silver  streaks  as  they  rose  or  dived. 

She  turned  her  head  languidly,  and  the  old,  half- 
forgotten  sensation  of  fear  and  hatred  rose  within  her 


412  Drifting  Waters 

when  she  found  that  both  Mrs.  D'Esterre  and  Miss 
Bagot  had  disappeared,  and  that  she  was  alone  with 
the  man  who  had  just  announced  himself  to  be  her 
father. 

He  stood  at  the  end  of  the  long  chair,  looking  to- 
wards her  with  an  air  of  apology  which  even  she  felt 
sat  oddly  upon  him.  She  thought  of  Aunt  Nancy 
and  the  divine  right  of  kings.  She  saw  a  vista  of 
conquering  Tudors  culminating  in  this  man.  It  all 
seemed  impossible,  somehow,  a  fantastic  dream  from 
which  she  would  awaken  in  an  instant. 

"I  am  sorry  that  this  should  have  happened,"  he 
said  at  last  in  the  voice  that  was  so  absurdly  like 
Nancy  Egerton's.  "It  was  no  doing  of  mine,  believe 
me. 

"No,"  she  found  herself  answering. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  in  Egypt.  I  did  not 
even  know  that  you  were  married. " 

Suddenly,  with  her  pride  a  measure  of  strength 
returned  to  Anne. 

"Of  course  not.     Why  should  you?" 

"There  was  no  reason  why  I  should,  of  course,"  he 
answered.  "And  yet  I  wish  I  had  known,  so  that  I 
could  have  spared  you  this. " 

"I  expect  it  had  to  come,"  said  Anne  tonelessly. 
"  I  always  felt  that  it  would  happen  some  day. " 

"And  dreaded  it?" 

"And  dreaded  it." 

"Well,  it's  not  so  dreadful  now  that  it  has  hap- 
pened, "  he  said  with  an  attempt  at  easing  the  tension. 

Anne  turned  a  white  face  with  haunted  eyes  to 
him.  Clear  before  her  was  the  vision  of  her  mother, 
dying. 


Threads  of  Fate  413 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly,  in  a  hoarse, 
strained  voice.  "You  don't  know.  I  suppose  you 
never  felt  anything  in  your  life. " 

"You're  wrong,"  he  jerked  out,  then  stopped. 

He  sat  down  suddenly  by  the  round  wicker  table 
and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  remember  me?"  he  asked 
unexpectedly. 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"You  were  a  queer  little  thing,  all  eyes,  but  you  were 
quite  fond  of  me." 

' '  Was  I  ? "  asked  Anne  incredulously.  Something  in 
her  tone  seemed  to  sting  him. 

"You've  only  heard  one  side  of  the  story, "  he  cried, 
"enough  to  condemn  me  unheard." 

"Yes, "  said  Anne,  looking  at  him  in  wonder  that  he 
should  dare  to  say  this  to  her.  "Enough  to  condemn 
you." 

He  made  a  sound  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak,  then 
changed  his  mind. 

After  a  pause  he  jerked  another  question  at  her — a 
question  which  startled  her  with  the  cloud  of  memories 
that  it  evoked. 

"Was  Margaret  happy  in  her  freedom?" 

Anne  gasped.  Did  he  really  think  she  could  have 
been  happy?     Had  he  never  realized  her  love? 

"No,"  she  answered  very  low. 

"Never?" 

"Yes.     Once." 

"When?" 

"When  she  was  dying. " 

It  gave  her  a  strange  sense  of  pleasure  to  see  him 
wince  at  her  answer,  a  pleasure  that  was  swiftly  swept 


414  Drifting  Waters 

aside  by  a  rush  of  other  conflicting  feelings :  pity,  pride, 
anger,  jealousy,  and  a  sudden  grudging  sense  that 
perhaps  she  owed  him  the  truth. 

Clasping  her  hands  nervously  together  she  said  with 
an  effort : 

"She  was  happy  because  she  thought  that  you — 
were  with  her.  She — died  when  she  found  that — 
you — were  not." 

He  shrank  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  Anne 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Please  go.  Please  go, "  she  cried.  "I  can't  stand 
any  more. " 

He  rose,  stood  near  her  for  a  moment  without  touch- 
ing her,  and  then  went. 

There  was  a  confused  murmur  of  voices  in  the  next 
room,  the  sound  of  a  chair  being  moved  hastily,  a  voice 
raised  in  protest,  a  patter  of  feet,  and  the  distant  clatter 
of  plates. 

Anne  was  faintly  aware  that  the  tent  flap  was  lifted 
again  and  that  someone  stood  by  her  side.  She 
opened  her  heavy  lids.     It  was  Miss  Bagot. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Assheton,  I  am  afraid  you  are  ill,"  she 
said  soothingly.  "The  heat  of  the  sun  has  been  too 
much  for  you.  You  must  not  come  in  to  luncheon. 
I  will  bring  you  some  in  here, " 

Anne  sat  up  suddenly.     "Has  Richard  come?" 

"No.  Mrs.  D'Esterre  says  that  it  is  better  not  to 
wait  any  longer  for  him. " 

"  Much  better  not, "  said  Anne  quickly.  "Will  you 
order  my  carriage,  please.     I  must  go  home." 

"You  must  have  some  luncheon  first. " 

"I  couldn't  eat  anything,  thank  you." 

"A  little  soup  and  some  wine. " 


Threads  of  Fate  415 

*'  It  would  choke  me, "  said  Anne. 

"But,  dear  Mrs.  Assheton,  you  really  must " 


"I  will  not  break  bread  beneath  this  roof,"  said 
Anne.  "I  must  get  away.  Let  me  go  home.  I  am 
stifling  here." 

She  rose  with  difficulty.  All  at  once  she  felt  un- 
utterably weary.  Her  legs  tottered  as  if  she  had  had 
an  illness.  Miss  Bagot  put  an  arm  round  her.  She 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

"But,  Mrs.  D'Esterre, "  she  began. 

Anne  shuddered.  "I  cannot  see  Mrs.  D'Esterre 
again.  I  don't  want  to  be  rude,  but  please,  please 
help  me  to  go  before — they — come  back.  They — will 
understand." 

Whether  Miss  Bagot  understood  or  not  she  made  no 
sign.  She  did  not  attempt  any  further  disuasion,  but 
with  an  arm  through  Anne's  she  led  her  into  the  outer 
room.     It  was  empty. 

An  Arab  servant  was  bringing  in  dishes.  She  spoke 
to  him  as  one  who  is  used  to  command. 

"Order  the  sitti  Assheton's  arabiyeh.  She  is  ill. 
She  wants  to  go  home. " 

The  man  went  at  once. 

"You  must  take  a  little  wine,"  said  Miss  Bagot. 
"You  don't  want  to  faint,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  faint,"  said  Anne. 

"Better  still,  a  little  brandy,"  suggested  Miss  Bagot, 
taking  a  small  decanter  from  a  liqueur  stand,  and 
pouring  out  some  into  a  glass.  "Here.  Drink  this. 
I've  put  some  soda-water  in  it. " 

The  glass  tinkled  against  Anne's  teeth,  and  the 
unaccustomed  spirit  almost  choked  her,  but  in  a 
moment  or  two  its  reviving  power  became  apparent, 


41 6  Drifting  Waters 

and  she  was  able  to  walk  to  the  wooden  stairs  without 
shivering  or  trembling. 

Miss  Bagot  waited  with  her  until  the  arabiyeh 
appeared.  Anne  felt  grateful  for  her  silence.  Speech 
was  impossible  to  her  just  then.  All  she  wanted  was 
to  be  alone. 

"Go  straight  to  bed  when  you  get  back,"  said  Miss 
Bagot,  as  she  helped  her  into  the  arabiyeh.  "I'm 
glad  you  have  that  decent  body  to  attend  on  you. 
Dr.  Assheton  will  give  you  something  that  will  set  you 
right  by  tomorrow." 

"Thank  you.  You  have  been  very  kind,"  mur- 
mured Anne.  "Will  you  tell  him  to  go  on,  please? 
Thank  you  again. " 

"Verily  my  price  is  above  rubies,"  said  Miss  Bagot 
to  herself,  as  the  arabiyeh  rolled  onwards,  enveloped 
in  a  cloud  of  dust. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GREAT  LIGHT 


ZOBEIDA  lay,  tufted  and  tasselled,  at  the  foot  of 
the  verandah  steps  as  Anne's  arabiyeh  turned 
in  at  the  gate. 

At  the  sound  of  its  wheels  Richard  came  out  of  the 
dining-room.  He  ran  down  the  steps  when  he  saw 
that  it  was  Anne. 

"I  was  just  going  to  start,"  he  cried.  Then  when 
he  realized  the  drawn  pallor  of  her  face:  "Anne 
what's  the  matter?    Are  you  ill?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  faintly.  "Richard,  I — feel 
as  if  I  were  dying. " 

She  fell  against  him  as  he  put  out  his  arms  to  take 
her,  and  lay,  a  dead  weight  against  his  breast. 

He  carried  her  into  the  house  and  up  to  her  own 
room,  calling  for  Sabina  as  he  went. 

She  looked  as  if  life  had  already  left  her  when  he 
laid  her  on  the  bed,  but  his  hand  on  her  heart  soon 
assured  him  that  she  had  only  fainted. 

Sabina  came  in  quickly. 

"Blessed  hour,  Mr.  Richard!  What  is  it?"  she 
cried. 

"Anne  is  ill.  She  has  fainted.  I  don't  know  what's 
87  417 


41 8  Drifting  Waters 

the  matter.  They  should  not  have  let  her  come  back 
alone  in  this  heat.  They  should  have  kept  her  until 
the  day  got  cooler,  or  until  I  came.  Careless  wretches 
people  are!     And  stupid,  unutterably  stupid." 

Through  his  murmurs  rang  anxiety  and  bewilder- 
ment.    All  the  while  his  hands  were  deftly  busy. 

"Them  sort  of  people  think  of  nothing  but  their- 
selves, "  sniffed  Sabina.  "The  poor  lamb,  I  never  saw 
her  faint  before.     It  must  have  been  the  heat,  sir." 

Richard  still  looked  puzzled. 

"She  can't  have  had  any  lunch.  She  had  barely 
time  to  get  there  and  back.  If  only  I  had  been  with 
her,  but  that  most  inopportune  Madame  Karadopouli ! 
Couldn't  her  wretched  offspring  have  chosen  another 
moment  to  enter  this  vale  of  tears?  She's  coming 
round,  Sabina.  She'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment.  I 
wonder  what  happened?" 

"It  must  have  been  the  heat,"  repeated  Sabina  in  a 
tone  which  held  no  conviction. 

Her  heart  had  contracted  painfully  at  the  sight  of 
Anne's  white  face,  so  strangely  like  the  dead  face  of  the 
mistress  whom  she  had  loved  and  served  so  faithfully. 

At  that  moment  Anne  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  them. 

"  It  was  relief, "  she  said  in  a  thin  weak  voice,  utterly 
imlike  her  own. 

"Relief,  dear?"  echoed  Richard  bending  over  her. 

"Yes,  relief  at  being  with — my  own — safe — people 
again,"  she  said  faintly. 

Richard's  eyes  met  Sabina's. 

"  Don't  try  to  talk  until  you  feel  better, "  he  said. 
"I'll  get  you  something  that  will  pull  you  together." 

"Not  brandy,"  she  said,  with  a  weak  hysterical 


The  Great  Light  419 

laugh.  "I've  had  brandy.  It's  horrid  stuflf.  I 
won't  have  any  more." 

"No,  not  brandy,"  answered  Richard  soothingly. 

He  left  the  room,  and  Sabina  poured  some  eau  de 
cologne  on  a  handkerchief,  and  began  to  dab  Anne's 
temples  gently  with  it.  The  action  soothed  her.  It 
was  cool  here,  and  restful  and  safe.  There  were  no 
horrible  people  to  trouble  her. 

She  thought  of  her  father's  caressing  hand  on  Liana 
D'Esterre's  bare  neck,  of  the  way  the  woman  had 
turned  and  rubbed  her  head  against  his  arm.  The 
picture  filled  her  with  a  sick  distaste.  Then  the  vision 
came  to  her  of  her  mother  as  she  had  last  seen  her  in 
life,  transformed  to  radiant  beauty  because  of  this 
man,  adoring  him,  murmuring  her  passionate  love  for 
him  with  her  last  breath,  and  d3dng  because  the  dream 
had  ceased  to  be. 

She  gave  a  little  moan. 

"There,  there,  my  lamb,"  said  Sabina.  "Here's 
himself  now. " 

"Here,  drink  this,"  said  Richard,  putting  his  arm 
under  her  and  holding  something  to  her  lips. 

She  drank  obediently,  shuddering  a  little.  Before 
he  put  her  down  she  clutched  his  coat. 

"Ricky,  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  while  I  can,  and 
then  if  I  can,  not  think  of  it  any  more. " 

"Yes,  dear,  tell  me  if  you  like,"  he  said,  touching 
her  disordered  hair  gently.  Passion  had  died  in  him. 
He  was  filled  with  an  overpowering  tenderness  for  her, 
a  desire  to  make  things  as  easy  as  possible  for  her, 
while  it  was  yet  in  his  power  to  do  so. 

"Ricky,"  the  words  came  with  difficulty.  "He — 
was    there.    Godfrey    Tudor.     My    father.    Ricky. 


420  Drifting  Waters 

He  is — her  lover.  It — was  horrible."  She  clung 
shuddering  to  him. 

After  a  little,  he  laid  her  gently  back  on  her  pillow. 
This  was  strange  news,  and  would  account  for  her 
shock  and  the  state  of  collapse.  He  had  always  known 
of  her  hidden  fear  and  dislike  and  shared  it  in  a  meas- 
ure. No  wonder  that  the  encounter  had  upset  nerves 
that  were  already  overstrained. 

' '  Don't  think  of  anything.  I  will  sit  by  you  and  fan 
you  until  you  go  to  sleep. " 

"I  am  so  tired,"  she  said  wearily. 

She  turned  on  the  pillow  and  put  her  hand  under  her 
cheek  as  a  child  might.  "I  am  sorry  to  be  such  a 
nuisance,  Ricky,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sigh.  "But  it 
was  so  utterly  unexpected,  so  unreal,  so  impossible 
somehow,  and  yet  so  inevitable  that " 

"No  talking,  please,"  he  commanded,  taking  the 
palmleaf  fan  that  Sabina  brought  him  and  wielding  it 
with  swift  regular  strokes.  "Shut  your  eyes  and  go 
to  sleep  at  once  like  a  good  girl. " 

She  smiled  faintly  as  she  closed  her  eyes. 

Richard  sat  and  fanned  her  until  her  regular  breath- 
ing told  him  that  she  was  asleep.  Then  he  rose  and 
stole  away,  having  much  food  for  thought. 


n 


Next  morning's  post  brought  him  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  D'Esterre  enclosing  a  cheque.  The  former 
he  perused  with  a  slight  frown ;  the  latter  he  had 
started  to  tear  in  two  when  commonsense  restrained 
him. 

"After  all,  I  earned  it,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  little 


The  Great  Light  421 

smile.  "  And  I've  paid  exorbitantly  for  it  if  it  has  lost 
me  Anne." 

"Dear  Dr.  Assheton, "  ran  the  letter,  "I  am  deso- 
lated not  to  see  you  again  and  to  thank  you  for  your 
skill  and  care  and  kindness,  but  my  friends  are  so  exi- 
gent that  they  have  sent  to  demand  of  me  that  I  leave 
this  place  at  once.  They  have  heard  and  magnified 
the  cholera  rumour  so  much  that  they  think  every 
moment  here  is  a  danger.  You,  too,  fear  risks  for 
Mrs.  Assheton,  n'est-ce-pas?  I  trust  that  she  has 
recovered  from  her  indisposition  of  yesterday.  I  was 
desolated  that  she  left  so  hastily,  but  she  was  anxious 
for  your  care,  most  naturally,  I  admit. 

"With  all  my  compliments  and  thanks " 

And  so  to  an  end. 

Richard's  lips  curled  as  he  read.  She  had  wriggled 
out  of  an  awkward  situation  neatly  enough. 

"I  pretend,  therefore  you  must  pretend.  What  we 
decided  to  ignore  must  be  as  though  it  were  not.  We 
shall  never  meet  again,  I  trust,  so  there  is  no  need  for 
impossible  explanations  or  awkward  apologies." 

So  be  it.  He  had  no  desire  to  see  Godfrey  Tudor. 
Their  ways  lay  apart,  even  as  his  and  Anne's 'were  to 
diverge  from  henceforth.  He  felt  inclined  to  curse 
the  malign  fate  that  had  brought  about  this  undesired 
and  unexpected  meeting,  and  robbed  him  of  his  last 
hours  of  Anne's  society.  As  with  so  many  of  life's 
incidents  it  seemed  meaningless,  unnecessary. 

Verily  from  him  who  hath  not  shall  be  taken  even 
that  which  he  hath. 

Anne  was  prostrate  for  those  few  remaining  days, 
content  to  lie  and  rest  through  the  long  warm  hours 
in  an  unquestioning  lassitude.     She  had  no  desire  to 


422  Drifting  Waters 

move,  to  talk,  to  read.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  drifting 
on  the  bosom  of  some  broad  stream  towards — what? 
The  Unknown.  She  was  willing  so  to  drift.  She 
wanted  no  scenes,  no  disturbances.  She  would  have 
been  quite  content  to  drift  thus  out  of  life  itself.  The 
thought  would  have  held  only  balm  for  her. 

Once  she  told  Richard  a  little  about  the  meeting  at 
Lake  Karfin.  Once  he  asked  her  if  she  wished  the 
arrangements  he  had  made  for  her  to  hold  good. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  had  answered.  "Why  should  we 
alter  them?" 

"Why  indeed,"  he  echoed.  "The  voyage  will  be 
good  for  you. " 

"Yes, "  she  answered  dully. 

After  that  they  spoke  but  little.  There  seemed  to 
be  nothing  more  to  say. 

Sabina  packed  in  an  atmosphere  of  dumb  disap- 
proval. Richard  was  mercifully  busy,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  was  alone  that  his  face  looked  drawn  and  grey. 
Sometimes  he  almost  longed  for  the  moment  of  de- 
parture; at  others  he  felt  that  to  lose  Anne,  even  her 
uncapturable  bodily  presence,  was  more  than  he  could 
bear. 

The  tension  grew,  yet  nothing  occurred  to  snap  it. 
The  minutes  rounded  into  hours,  the  hours  grew  to 
days. 

Anne  did  not  get  up  to  breakfast  on  Monday,  but  at 
luncheon  when  Richard  came  in  he  foimd  her  ready  to 
take  her  accustomed  place. 

"You  are  really  better?"  he  asked  quickly,  his  eyes 
searching  hers. 

"Oh,  I  am  all  right  again,"  she  answered,  without 
looking  at  him. 


I 


The  Great  Light  423 

She  seemed  nervous.  She  flushed  and  paled  quickly, 
and  her  fingers  crumbled  incessantly  the  bread  by  her 
plate.  To  his  hungry  eyes  she  looked  the  mere  shadow 
of  her  former  shadowy  self. 

"You  are  sure  you  feel  well  enough  to  travel." 
Richard  felt  afraid  of  silence. 

"Quite  sure.     It  is  an  easy  journey. " 

"Yes.     There  are  no  complications.'* 

"Sabina  is  a  good  traveller. " 

"You  are  fortunate  to  have  her. " 

"Very  fortunate  indeed." 

"You  will  wire  to  me  on  your  arrival  in  Cairo. 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  shall  be  anxious  to  hear." 

She  moved  impatiently.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
stand  this  interchange  of  civilities  much  longer. 
Khalil  came  and  went  noiselessly.  At  last  she  stole  a 
glance  at  Richard's  face.  It  looked  hard  and  cold, 
and  strangely  old  for  his  years.  She  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  when  he  grew  really  old;  if  he  and  she 
would  ever  meet  when  the  storms  of  their  youth  should 
be  overpast. 

She  pushed  her  plate  aside  and  rose  suddenly. 

"'If  'twere  done,  'twere  well  'twere  done  quickly.' 
Isn't  that  Shakespere?"  she  said  in  a  queer  choked 
voice.  "I  can't  eat  any  more.  I  must  go  finish  my 
packing. " 

"  Don't  overtire  yourself, "  was  all  he  said. 

But  when  she  had  gone  he,  too,  pushed  his  plate 
aside  and  leant  his  head  on  his  hands. 

Khalil  made  sounds  of  disgust  in  his  throat  when  he 
came  to  clear  away  the  wasted  luncheon.  His  be- 
loved Hakim  Effendi  would  be  ill  if  he  did  not  eat. 


424  Drifting  Waters 

About  the  sitt  his  mind  was  easy.  Women  could 
always  look  after  themselves.  Besides  his  master 
had  ordered  him  to  pack  the  tea-basket  for  her,  and 
sitti  Sabina  was  well  able  to  take  care  of  her  own  sitt. 
Allah  be  praised,  they  would  have  the  house  to  them- 
selves tomorrow!  There  was  no  end  to  the  trouble 
that  the  sittdt  gave. 

At  half-past  three  Anne  came  downstairs,  ready  for 
travelling. 

"Sabina  and  I  would  like  to  walk  to  the  station," 
she  said.     "It  is  only  a  stone's  throw,  isn't  it?" 

Richard  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room  near  the 
window.  He  had  not  heard  her  enter,  and  started  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice. 

"Just  as  you  like,"  he  answered.  "If  you  don't 
think  that  it  will  tire  you. " 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  it  will  tire  me.  Oughtn't  we 
to  start?    The  men  have  taken  our  boxes. " 

"They  like  the  excitement  of  being  at  the  railway- 
station.  They  would  go  there  hours  beforehand  if 
you  let  them." 

"Oh,  would  they?" 

"Railway-stations  have  a  different  effect  on  the 
English  mind,"  Richard  continued,  talking  for  the 
sake  of  defying  that  soul-disturbing  silence.  "They 
sap  my  very  brain  and  paralyse  all  my  conversation. 
Haven't  they  the  same  effect  on  you?" 

Anne  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She  was  moving 
restlessly  about  the  room,  touching  things  here  and 
there,  moving  vases,  picking  up  cushions  and  letting 
them  faU  again. 

"I  really  think  we  ought  to  be  going,"  she  said, 
nervously. 


The  Great  Light  425 

"Just  as  you  like, "  he  answered,  coming  towards  her. 

She  started.     He  stood  still. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Anne.  I  was  not  going  to 
touch  you." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't — "  she  began,  and  then  stopped, 
flushing  painfully. 

Sabina's  step  sounded  in  the  hall.  Anne  quickly 
went  out.  These  last  moments  were  a  veritable  mar- 
tyrdom. She  must  get  out,  must  escape  while  she  held 
the  frail  thread  of  her  self-control.  Anything  might 
snap  it  at  any  minute.  Oh,  if  only  it  were  all  over! 
If  only  Ricky  were  not  so  unapproachable!  If  only 
she  had  something  to  remember! 

She  wanted  to  say  some  word  of  sorrow  at  her  failure 
to  be  what  he  had  wanted  her  to  be,  but  did  not  dare 
to  trust  her  voice.  It  was  better  not,  better  to  say 
nothing  until  she  was  free  to  let  herself  go,  to  break 
down  if  she  would. 

Sabina  stood  in  the  hall,  grimly  respectable  in  her 
black  coat  and  skirt,  disapproval  written  on  every  line 
of  face  and  form. 

"Is  it  time  to  be  going,  ma'am?"  she  asked  stiffly. 

"Yes,"  Anne  answered,  without  looking  at  her. 
She  felt  that  Sabina's  crossness  was  the  last  straw. 

"Where  is  my  parasol?  I  mustn't  forget  my 
parasol,"  she  went  on  gazing  round  the  bare  wide 
hall  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing. 

"It's  hanging  on  your  arm,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  is  it?  I  didn't  know.  How  stupid  of  me." 
She  gave  a  choked  little  laugh,  and  hurried  towards 
the  hall-door. 

"I  trust  you  to  take  care  of  her,  Sabina,"  said 
Richard,  lingering  for  a  moment. 


426  Drifting  Waters 

"That's  your  place,  sir, "  answered  Sabina,  with  her 
lips  in  a  thin  line. 

Richard  gave  a  short  laugh  that  was  half  a  groan. 

"I've  been  dismissed  from  it,  my  good  Sabina. 
Been  given  notice.     Isn't  that  what  you  call  it?" 

Sabina  looked  at  him  critically. 

"I  may  be  old-fashioned,  sir,  but  I  don't  hold  with 
that  sort  of  thing  between  man  and  wife.  Man  and 
woman  created  He  them.  You're  a  man,  sir,  and  she's 
a  woman.  Why  don't  you  act  as  a  man,  Mr.  Richard, 
and  stand  up  for  your  rights?" 

"Do  you  realize  that  you're  advising  a  return  to 
barbarism,  Sabina?  Excellent  in  its  way,  but  a  little 
too  late  now.  Marriage  by  capture,  in  a  word.  Well 
I  tried  that,  Sabina,  and  it  didn't  work. " 

Anne  turned  from  the  doorway. 

"Aren't  you  coming?  I  know  we  shall  miss  that 
train. " 

"I  declare  I'd  like  to  shake  the  both  of  ye!"  mut- 
tered Sabina,  as  she  followed  them  down  the  path 
between  the  rose-bushes  and  oleanders  that  were 
now  begining  to  put  forth  white  and  sunset-pink 
blossoms. 

The  Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs  whined  and  rumbled  as 
they  went. 

Anne  walked  quickly  at  first,  then  slowed  down  as 
she  began  to  lose  her  breath. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,"  Richard  assured  her. 
"Khalil  will  have  everything  ready.  He  is  an 
invaluable  rascal." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  him,"  she  said. 

Richard  gave  the  queer  little  laugh  that  jarred  so 
painfully. 


The  Great  Light  427 

"More  makeshifts!  Delicious!"  he  cried.  "You 
have  Sabina,  I  have  Khalil.  Shall  we  exchange  to 
make  things  more  even?" 

"Don't,  Ricky,"  she  said  very  low. 

Near  the  railway  gates  were  the  huts  of  the  scribes, 
little  open-fronted  wooden  sheds  furnished  only  with  a 
strip  of  gay  carpet  and  a  bench.  On  the  walls  were 
pinned  coloured  pictures  from  French  and  English 
illustrated  papers. 

The  scribes,  serious  black-robed  men,  sat  on  a  stool 
in  the  centre  of  each  hut,  while  their  clients  squatted 
on  the  ground  outside. 

One  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  grave  bearded 
men  in  white  turbans  and  long  robes  of  brown,  white, 
or  blue:  sheikhs  and  notables  from  some  neighbouring 
village,  who  required  a  petition. 

Others  wrote  for  younger  men,  in  knots  of  twos  and 
threes. 

Only  one  had  a  woman  for  his  client.  Anne  looked 
curiously  at  her  as  they  passed. 

She  was  unveiled,  like  all  the  fellahtn  women  of 
Upper  Egypt,  and  wore  the  thin  black  head-shawl  and 
dark  flowing  draperies  of  her  class.  Her  chin  was 
tattooed  with  blue  lines,  she  wore  the  Faylim  nose- 
ring in  her  right  nostril.  A  long  chain  of  bright  gold 
beads  was  twisted  round  her  neck  and  fell  towards  her 
bare  brown  bosom.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  furtive. 
She  knelt  close  to  the  scribe,  whispering  so  that  none 
should  hear,  and  glanced  round  every  moment  as  if 
to  be  sure  that  there  was  no  eavesdropper.  It  was 
evidently  a  matter  of  gravest  import  to  her. 

Richard  followed  the  direction  of  Anne's  eyes. 

"Is  it  a  love  letter  or  an  intrigue,  I  wonder?"  he 


428  Drifting  Waters 

said.  "  One  doesn't  often  see  a  woman  in  the  huts 
of  the  scribes." 

"It's  something  that  really  matters,  anyhow," 
Anne  answered,  with  an  effort. 

"Then  it  can't  be  a  love-letter, "  he  said  pleasantly. 

Anne  winced. 

"Don't  you  think  that  ever  matters?"  she  asked 
below  her  breath. 

"Does  anything  matter?"  he  returned  in  the  same 
tone.  "Life's  a  queer  muddle,  or  a  compromise  at 
best." 

"Not  at  best,"  she  whispered,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  hear. 

After  all,  there  was  little  delay.  The  train  was 
waiting.  There  was  the  usual  crowd  of  Arabs  surging 
into  the  third-class  carriages,  the  usual  crowd  of 
excited  friends  seeing  them  off,  the  usual  interested 
spectators  squatting  on  the  ground  near  the  railing. 

The  sun  was  hot.  The  air  quivered  with  an 
impalpable  haze. 

Sabina,  still  as  if  under  protest,  clambered  into  the 
carriage  and  dumped  Anne's  bag  on  the  seat. 

Anne  turned  to  her  husband,  her  heart  beating 
furiously,  and  held  out  her  hands. 

He  took  them  and  held  them  hard,  gazing  at  her  for 
a  moment. 

"Are  you  going  to  kiss  me?"  he  asked  rather 
hoarsely. 

Anne  was  startled  and  flushed  nervously. 

"Yes,  of  course.     Yes,  if  you  wish." 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  held  her  closely  for  a 
moment,  kissing  the  white  upturned  face.  Then  he 
almost  lifted  her  into  the  carriage. 


"loved    you  7      O,    YOU    BLIND    RICKY  I" 


The  Great  Light  429 

"Go  now.     Go,  for  God's  sake,  "  he  said. 

Anne  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The  guard 
slammed  the  carriage-door  and  waved  his  flag.  She 
leaned  out  through  the  open  window,  and  bent 
towards  him. 

"Ricky!  Ricky!  I  am  sorry  I  failed  you.  I — 
tried— Ricky " 

"If  only  you  could  have  loved  me  a  little — "  he 
murmured  hoarsely.     His  face  was  haggard. 

At  his  words  hers  grew  transfigured,  lit  to  that 
strange  inner  loveliness  which  so  rarely  transformed 
it. 

"Loved  you?     Oh,  you  blind  Ricky!" 

The  train  was  moving.  It  gathered  speed,  but  he 
ran  alongside  still  clinging  to  the  carriage-door. 

* '  Anne !     Do  you  mean ' ' 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  firmly  seized  from  behind^ 
and  his  flight  stopped.  He  struggled  for  an  instant, 
but  when  he  broke  loose  from  his  captors  the  train  was 
out  of  reach. 

"Sir,  a  thousand  pardons,"  said  the  portly  station- 
master,  panting,  "but  it  was  a  madness,  and  besides 
against  the  law." 

"Confound  you,  how  dared  you  touch  me?" 
growled  Richard. 

"Sir,  you  would  have  been  killed  and  I  should  have 
been  held  to  account. " 

' '  Damn  you,  man.  You  don't  know  what  you  have 
done." 

"Sir,  I  have  saved  your  life. "  Beads  of  perspiration 
were  rolling  down  his  yellowish  face,  but  there  was 
offended  dignity  in  his  tone. 

"I  am  much  obliged,"  said  Richard.     "I  suppose 


430  Drifting  Waters 

you  were  only  doing  your  duty,  but  it  was  a  damned 
awkward  moment  for  me.  Only  for  you  I  should 
have  been  in  the  train  now. " 

"I  did  not  know  of  your  intention,  sir,  or  would  have 
stopped  the  train. " 

"  I  didn't  know  of  it  myself, "  said  Richard,  calming 
suddenly. 

The  station-master  shook  his  head  and  raised 
protesting  hands  to  heaven. 

"  I  had  something  important  to  say  to  my  wife. " 

"Sir,  there  is  the  post." 

"Useless." 

"Or  the  telegraph." 

"Thanks,  that's  an  idea,"  said  Richard.  "Is 
there  another  train  for  Cairo  tonight?" 

The  station-master  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  until  ten  o'clock  tomorrow  morning. " 

"Could  I  get  a  special?" 

"  Yd  saldam,  effendi,  no!"  cried  the  station-master, 
becoming  Arabic  in  his  surprise.  "Not  at  El- 
Medineh." 

in 

Richard  turned  away,  but  he  did  not  go  to  the 
telegraph  office.  He  strode  hastily  down  the  dusty 
road,  past  the  huts  of  the  scribes,  back  to  his  deserted 
house.     He  felt  as  if  the  world  had  turned  upside  down. 

On  a  chair  in  the  hall  lay  a  glove  of  Anne's,  a  white 
gauntlet  glove  such  as  she  had  worn  on  the  day  they 
rode  together  to  the  water-mills.  He  caught  it  up 
and  crushed  it  in  his  hand.  Then  he  went  into  the 
drawing-room  and  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  like 
a  man  who  suddenly  realizes  that  he  is  tired  out. 


The  Great  Light  431 

He  spread  the  glove  on  his  knee  and  stroked  it 
gently. 

Cotild  she  have  meant  that  she  loved  him  after  all? 
Had  they  been  playing  at  some  idiotic  game  of  cross- 
purposes  all  these  weary  weeks?  Could  she  possibly 
have  made  the  same  mistake  about  him  as  he  had 
about  her  ?  Were  ever  two  people  so  utterly  imbecile  ? 
So  impossibly  blind  ? 

He  thought  of  her  face,  transfigured  as  it  had  been 
on  that  wonderful  day  on  the  river  when  he  had  first 
told  her  that  he  loved  her.  Dear  as  she  had  been  then 
she  was  a  thousand  times  dearer  now.  All  her  caprices, 
her  withdrawals,  her  petulances  were  forgotten,  burnt 
up  in  the  great  light  that  had  so  unbelievably  flooded 
his  darkness. 

"Oh,  you  blind  Ricky!" 

"Oh,  you  blind  Anne!"  he  would  say  to  her  with 
equal  truth. 

How  could  she  look  at  him,  touch  him,  speak  to  him 
and  not  find  love  in  every  glance,  tone,  and  gesture? 
How  were  her  eyes  holden  that  she  did  not  see  that  he 
was  on  fire  with  love  of  her  ? 

He  forgot  his  own  self-repression,  his  stern  self- 
command.  He  forgot  everything  except  that  they 
loved  each  other,  and  that  life  was  the  wonderful, 
magnificent  thing  he  had  once  believed  it  to  be. 

In  that  moment  he  touched  the  heights. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  sat  there  with  his 
hand  on  the  soft  leather  of  her  glove.  Ecstasy  is  as 
timeless  as  sorrow. 

At  last  he  roused  himself,  and  looked  round  him  at 
the  room  which  she  had  made  so  characteristic  of 
herself.     The  light  breeze  fluttered  the  curtains,  and 


432  Drifting  Waters 

stirred  the  green  and  silver  table  cover.  There  were 
fresh  pink  roses  in  all  the  vases.  She  had  taken  noth- 
ing away  but  a  few  books,  her  music,  her  embroidery 
frame,  yet  the  room  seemed  as  empty  as  if  it  had  been 
sacked. 

How  to  reach  her — that  was  the  next  question. 
Was  he  sure,  after  all,  of  what  he  thought  he  had  read 
in  her  face  ? 

Doubts  began  to  torment  him  once  more.  Should 
he  wire  to  her  to  stay  in  Cairo  until  he  came  ?  If  she 
would  not  come  back  with  him  she  could  easily  go  on 
by  another  boat.  But  how  would  he  feel  if  he  arrived 
at  the  Hotel  Semiramis  and  found  her  flown?  Dare 
he  risk  it  ? 

Oh,  if  he  could  only  have  chartered  a  special !  Why 
hadn't  he  an  aeroplane  that  would  take  him  across  the 
strip  of  desert  in  time  to  walk  into  the  hotel  and  take 
her  by  storm? 

Suddenly  inspiration  dawned.  Zobeida!  Zobeida, 
his  racing  camel,  who  could  go  like  the  wind  across  the 
tameless  desert;  Zobeida,  who  could  out-distance  the 
swiftest  camel  of  any  marauding  Bedouin.  Zobeida 
should  take  him  to  Cairo,  should  carry  him  to  happi- 
ness, to  love,  to  Anne. 

He  would  give  no  warning  of  his  coming.  He  would 
just  go.  Zobeida,  his  moon,  his  pearl  of  steeds !  Why 
did  he  not  think  of  her  sooner  ? 

He  rose,  transformed  as  Anne  had  been,  and  looked 
around  him  once  more. 

Tomorrow,  perhaps,  the  casket  should  have  its 
jewel  again,  and  all  the  colour  and  fulness  would 
have  retvimed  to  life. 

He  called  to  Khalil,  who  looked  with  astonishment 


The  Great  Light  433 

at  his  altered  face,  and  gave  him  instructions  about 
Zobeida. 

"The  effendi  is  going  to  ride  to  Cairo?"  he  echoed. 
"  Yd  saldam,  it  is  a  long  way,  and  there  are  bad  places 
in  the  desert." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  any  Bedouin." 

"It  is  not  the  Bedouin,  O  effendi.  It  is  the  afrtts. 
They  are  evil.  The  desert  is  full  of  them.  I  myself 
have  seen  them  riding  in  the  Zoba'ah. " 

"What  is  that,  Khalil?" 

"A  whirling  pillar  of  sand,  effendi,  in  which  the 
afriis  ride  across  the  desert.  It  is  a  sight  of  terror. " 
The  man's  white  eyeballs  rolled.  "All  that  you  can 
do  is  to  prostrate  yourself  and  call  upon  Allah  to  avert 
the  evil.  Then,  perhaps,  unless  your  hour  has  struck, 
you  will  be  safe,  as  I  was,  when  the  Zoba'ah  has 
passed. " 

Richard  laughed. 

"Neither  afrtt  nor  Zoba'ah  will  have  power  to  harm 
me  tonight.  I  have  a  talisman  that  is  stronger  than 
they  are." 

"That  is  well,  effendi.  Will  you  give  me  a  little 
peep  at  this  great  amulet?" 

"It  might  lose  its  power  if  I  showed  it  to  you, "  said 
Richard  smiling.  "If  I  told  you  its  name,  even,  the 
charm  might  be  gone. " 

"It  must  be  a  rare  talisman,  0  effendi."  Khalil 
was  filled  with  curiosity. 

"  It  is  indeed, "  returned  Richard,  who  scarcely  knew 
what  he  was  saying,  so  intoxicated  was  he  with  love 
and  hope.  "  It  is  no  more  and  no  less  than  the  glimpse 
of  a  feather  from  the  Blue  Bird's  tail ! " 

"  Yd  saldam,  effendi!"  cried  Khalil,  who  began  to 
as 


434  Drifting  Waters 

have  doubts  of  his  master's  sanity.  "You  will  eat 
before  you  start.  You  have  not  eaten  enough  to 
keep  a  mosquito  alive  this  day. " 

"I  will  eat  and  drink,  Klhalil.  I  really  believe  I 
am  hungry.  My  food  will  be  nectar  and  ambrosia 
after  my  late  diet  of  dust  and  ashes.  Hurry  now,  and 
give  Hassan  all  instructions,  and  pack  my  bag  in  case 
I  decide  to  stay  in  Cairo  for  a  few  days.  I  would 
like  to  start  this  moment,  but  there  is  no  use  in  arriving 
in  the  middle  of  the  night. " 

"No,  indeed,  effendi,"  said  Khalil,  greatly  puzzled 
by  his  master's  movements. 

The  swift  Egyptian  night  had  fallen  when  Richard 
started  on  his  journey. 

A  moon  of  almost  startling  brilliance  shone  in  the 
blue  depths  above,  to  lighten  his  way  to  the  far  outline 
of  the  Libyan  Hills  and  the  long  pale  undulation  of  the 
desert.  Large  stars  hung  and  trembled  like  jewels  in 
a  sapphire  dome. 

The  assembled  servants  stood  on  the  steps  to  watch 
him  go,  and  commended  him  to  Allah. 

As  Zobeida  ambled  slowly  through  the  gateway  the 
Song  of  the  Sakkiyehs  came  to  him  through  the  still- 
ness. It  had  a  tender  crooning  sound  tonight,  a 
sound  of  soft  content.     His  heart  sang  in  answer  to  it. 

"Life!  Life!  Life!  Wonderful,  wonderful  life!" 
murmured  the  water  as  it  trilled  and  bubbled  through 
the  great  black  wheels,  and  ran  towards  the  thirsty 
earth. 

"Love!  Love!  Love!  Wonderful,  ineffable  Love!" 
echoed  Richard's  ecstasy,  as  he  set  out  to  ride  through 
the  desert  and  across  the  hills,  on  the  eternal  quest  of 
poor  htunanity. 


The  Great  Light  435 

The  stars  wheeled  in  their  courses,  the  sky  deepened 
to  purple,  the  desert  wind  blew  upon  his  face  as 
Zobeida  quickened  her  pace  and  rushed  through  the 
wide  immensity  of  night,  onwards,  onwards  towards 
the  dawn. 


IV 


At  eight  o'clock  Sabina,  fully  dressed,  was  startled 
by  a  knock  at  her  door  and  a  message  that  she  was 
wanted.  She  went  hastily  out  into  the  corridor  to  run 
almost  into  her  master's  arms.  He  was  dressed  for 
riding,  and  though  he  looked  rather  white  his  eyes 
shone. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Richard!  Mr.  Richard!"  she  cried,  burst- 
ing into  unwonted  tears.  "Oh,  Lord  love  you,  sir, 
how  did  you  get  here?" 

She  clutched  his  arm  in  her  excitement. 

' '  How  is  Anne  ?  "  he  asked.     * '  Does  she  expect  me  ?  " 

Sabina  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  sir,  but  it's  my  belief  she  do. 
She  sent  you  a  telegraph  last  night,  and  'twas  the  way 
she  was  like  a  hen  on  a  hot  griddle  all  the  evening,  hop- 
ping up  and  down  to  see  if  there  was  e'er  an  answer. 
She  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night,  sir.  I  took  her  in  a 
cup  of  tea  about  six,  and  the  first  thing  she  asked  was, 
'Has  it  come?'  You're  better  than  it,  Mr.  Richard. 
Oh,  sir,  'twas  time  the  both  of  you  got  some  sense 
knocked  into  you!" 

"Then  she's  awake? "  said  Richard.  "  Which  is  her 
room?" 

"This  way,  sir,"  cried  Sabina,  wiping  her  eyes  and 
leading  him  down  the  corridor  joyously.     "'Twas  the 


43^  Drifting  Waters 

way^she  was  up  sitting  by  the  window  when  last  I  was 
in  there,  looking  at  the  river.  She  was  always  fond  of 
looking  at  the  water,  sir. " 

"Yes,  yes, "  said  Richard  impatiently.  "Is  this  the 
room?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  knocked.     A  faint  voice  answered:  "Come  in." 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered. 

Anne  sat  by  the  window,  looking  listlessly  out  on  the 
river,  with  its  palm-fringed  banks,  its  white-sailed 
boats,  and  anchored  steamers  and  dahabiyehs,  gay  with 
fluttering  flags. 

She  wore  a  loose  white  neglige,  and  her  long  black 
plaits  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  the  old  remembered 
way.  She  did  not  turn  her  head  at  first,  thinking  that 
it  was  Sabina.  Richard  felt  that  she  must  hear  his 
heart  beating  as  he  stood  watching  her. 

"No  news,  of  course,"  she  said  tonelessly. 

"Great  news,"  cried  Richard,  striding  towards  her. 

In  an  instant  she  had  jumped  from  her  chair  and 
stumbled  towards  him  with  outstretched  hands.  A 
lovely  colour  flooded  her  pale  cheeks.  Her  eyes 
shone. 

"Oh,  Ricky!  Darling,  is  it  really  you?"  she 
faltered,  as  she  found  his  arms  around  her. 

He  held  her  as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go.  She 
clung  to  him  with  a  sort  of  desperation.  They  could 
find  no  words.  They  needed  none  once  their  lips  had 
met. 

Time  was  not,  nor  space,  nor  any  limitation.  They 
had  found  Love,  which  is  the  Fourth  Dimension  where 
anything  may  happen. 

When   at   last   they  returned   to  earth  and  their 


The  Great  Light  437 

murmurs  became  articulate  once  more,  he  whispered 
in  her  ear: 

"I  cannot  believe  that  I  have  really  got  my  Elfin 
Princess  at  last." 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  is  no  Elfin  Princess 
any  longer." 

"What  is  there  then?" 

She  wound  her  black  plaits  round  his  neck  and  drew 
him  very  close. 

"Just  a  woman.  Just  your  wife,  my  very  dearest, " 
she  murmured  with  her  cheek  against  his. 


THE  END 


Ji  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogue  aent 
on  application 


The  Torch  of 
Life 


By 
Rachel  S.  Macnamara 

Author  of  " The  Fringe  of  the  Desert" 

12°,     $1.35  net 

With  TAe  Fringe  of  the  Desert  Miss  Macnamara 
achieved  an  immediate  success.  Her  new  story 
opens  with  Titian  Fleury  being  informed  of  her 
husband's  death.  For  ten  years  she  has  been  the 
wife  of  a  man  hopelessly  paralyzed  owing  to  an 
accident  on  their  wedding  day.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-nine  she  finds  herself  free  to  discover  the 
world  of  which  she  has  heard  men  speak.  She 
has  ten  spurned  and  thwarted  years  to  avenge. 
Her  ingenuous  and  impulsive  nature  cries  aloud 
for  happiness  and  love.  Miss  Macnamara  has 
been  justly  praised  for  her  wonderful  descriptions 
of  the  East  In  her  new  novel  the  Venetian 
scenes  are  equally  vivid,  being  full  of  the  life 
and  color  of  the  South. 


The 
Fringe  of  the  Desert 

By  R.  S.  Macnamara 

/2*.    $135  net    By  mail  $1S0 

"Jindtht  Wise  Man  said:  *  Those  who  love  with 
passion  stand  on  the  Fringe  of  the  Desert ';  and  they 
who  heard  laughed  and  passed  on  their  way. " 

The  atmosphere  of  Egypt  glows  and 
pulsates  through  the  story,  giving  to  the 
author  an  opportunity  of  showing  that, 
not  only  figuratively  but  literally,  these 
two  lovers,  Ingram  and  Hesper,  stood  on 
the  Fringe  of  the  Desert.  It  was  her  power 
of  calling  up  vivid  pictures  of  Eg3rpt  and 
the  Desert  that  caused  critics  to  compare 
a  former  story  of  Miss  Macnamara's  with 
the  work  of  those  magicians  of  the  East, 
Robert  Hichens  and  Pierre  Loti.  This 
new  book  promises  to  emphasize  her 
strength  in  that  particular. 

New  York  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons    London 


The  Promise 

A  Tale  of  the  Great  Northwest  and  of  a 
Man  Who  Kept  His  Word 

By 
James  B.  Hendryx 

72°.      Picture   Wrapper.      $1.35  net 

A  tale  of  a  strong  man's  regeneration— of 
the  transformation  of  **  Broadway  Bill " 
Garmody,  millionaire's  son,  rounder,  and 
sport,  whose  drunken  sprees  have  finally 
overtaxed  the  patience  of  his  father  and  the 
girl,  into  a  Man,  clear-eyed  and  clean-lived,  a 
true  descendant  of  the  fighting  McKims. 

After  the  opening  scenes  in  New  York, 
we  have  a  vivid  narrative  of  the  lumber-camps 
of  the  Northwest — of  the  work  of  strong  men 
— of  hardships  undergone  and  of  dangers  met 
bravely  and  passed — of  the  struggle  against 
heavy  odds,  and  of  the  making  good  of  the 
"  Man  Who  Gould  Not  Die." 

G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons 

New  York  London 


The  Golden  Slipper 

And  Other  Problems 
for  Violet  Strange 


By 
Jtnna  IQatharine  Green 

]T.     Fmntispiece  hy  A.  I.  Keller.     $1 .35 

The  dominant  figure  in  this  series  of  de- 
tective stories  is  a  young  girl,  Violet  Strange 
— detective  par  excellence.  She  observes 
sharply,  thinks  intensely,  and  has  the  faculty 
of  disentangling,  out  of  a  maze  of  perplexing 
circumstances,  the  one  explanation  that  ac- 
cords with  facts,  and  carries  out  her  reason- 
ing with  the  most  consummate  ability. 

The  author  wrote  "The  Leavenworth 
Case  "  nearly  forty  years  ago,  and  ever  since 
has  steadily  maintained  an  important  position 
among  writers  of  fiction. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


II 
A     000  404  741     1 


